Hatred
by JMK758
Summary: A shocking crime sends an agent on a vengeful quest. Can Gibbs and his team stop him before revenge leads to murder? Please Review.
1. Fireworks

This is my eighteenth NCIS Mystery and the seventh of my Second Season, set roughly in the 5th Season of the televised series. The list of stories became so extensive I moved it, with summaries, to my profile.  
The usual legal disclaimers. I own no one but Siobhan (Shavonne) O'Mallory, whom Tim McGee calls 'Shav'; and Samantha Sky, who apprenticed under Ducky Mallard during Jimmy and Michelle Palmer's honeymoon.  
This story follows, by more than a week, the events depicted in 'Have Yourself A Merry...'  
Rating: T or NCis-17. Non-Con sexual situations, violence and disturbing imagery. Mature audiences.

Hatred  
By JMK758  
Chapter One  
Fireworks

"Almost time!" Michelle Palmer calls from the window that overlooks the Navy Yard to beyond the Capital Mall. It's the final moments of Tuesday night, December 31 and her excited call summons the party that fills the huge Operations complex to join her at the expanse. She reaches out and tugs her husband closer; the tall man snuggles in behind her as the agents crowd into spaces at the window.

"Sixty seconds!" someone calls unnecessarily as they look out into the night. The capital building and Washington Monument form a backdrop to the festival.

Samantha Sky quickly snags a spot at the window beside Michelle. At five two, the blonde M.E. Apprentice is even smaller than the petite agent. She shares a silent glance with the woman that says 'let the mountains find their own places'.

Another champagne bottle pops behind them, the cork ricochets off the skylight. "Incoming," someone warns. DiNozzo, in the back, backhands it and bats the missile across the huge room.

"Home run!" Melanie Kelman calls.

"Only kind I hit."

"Yeah, right."

"Here it comes!"

x

Outside, the falling snow is illuminated by the lights of the Naval Station to cast its own enchantment on the scene. "Fifteen!" someone calls, the coordinated chant taken up as late arrivals infiltrate the growing crowd where they may.

"TEN!" The chant rises in volume and intensity, the crowd seems to surge to the rhythm. "Eight – Seven – Six – _Five_ – _Four_ –THREE – _TWO_ – _ONE_ – _**HAPPY NEW YEAR**_!" The cry fills the complex and is echoed in other rooms; hugs and kisses of varying intensity are exchanged. Over cheers and bedlam the strains of Guy Lombardo's orchestral 'Auld Lang Syne' fill Operations. Seconds later the first of the colorful fireworks explode over the Capital dome to begin a spectacular and awe-inspiring production.

Music fills the air, simulcast over various media and in some cases warbled from throats that range from skilled through hopeless, all with ribald intensity. Not surprisingly, the greatest fervor is given to the Navy and Marine Hymns. Fireworks near and far turn Washington into a vast vista of color amid exclamations of appreciation.

x

"Thank you for inviting me, Doctor," Samantha Sky looks up to her mentor beside her when the display concludes twenty minutes later. The venerable man had not had to 'snare' any prime position by the window; a path had been cleared for him.

"Think nothing of it, my dear. I'm happy to have you." Each agent and employee had been permitted a single guest; for Ducky the choice had been quite easy. Sammy had been his temporary Assistant M.E. in late November and early December while Jimmy and Michelle Palmer were on their honeymoon. The diminutive woman's unrestrained enthusiasm fits well with the celebratory atmosphere.

They had last encountered Sky, surprisingly, at the Christmas Pageant at Saint Mary's, which Chaplain O'Mallory had arranged and to which she had maneuvered many of the agents into making substantial contributions. When the priest had learned of the young woman's skills with the violin, she had recruited her support. The Apprentice Medical Examiner had backed up many presentations, while her solo rendition of 'Ave Maria' had utterly entranced the crowd which had filled Hamilton Hall a few days before Christmas.

x

"It was really great," Michelle Palmer enthuses about the pyrotechnic display as she curls her arm about her much taller husband's.

"Yes," Tim McGee agrees as he steps up and hands Siobhan O'Mallory a glass of champagne. She sips it and he watches the way the lights play on the glass and in the lenses before her emerald eyes. He tries to keep his smile from looking as sappy as it feels. She catches his eyes on her and leans in to give him a kiss on his cheek.

"Come on," Michelle urges the priest, "you're _dating_. You can do better than _that_!"

"Yeah, McChaste," DiNozzo chimes in, "you can do better."

Siobhan's blush is deeper than the redness of her ruby dress, the kind of blush only redheads seem to achieve. Knowing she is blushing only makes it worse.

"Not everyone is comfortable with public displays of affection, Anthony," Ducky chides in an attempt to salvage the moment. He knows the Episcopal Priest must be cautious of her image even within the more liberal limitations of her denomination - or perhaps because of them.

"I always am," DiNozzo assures him.

Sammy Sky rushes in; a hop brings her a foot up with her arms about the much taller man's neck. She plants a passionate kiss on his lips to a raucous chorus of encouragement and quickly drops back to her feet.

"That's not fair! I wasn't ready."

"Sorry, Agent DiNozzo, only one kiss a year."

He can at least join in the laughter, freely scoring her the point.

x

Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Deputy Special Agent-in-Charge, is quite happy the festivities are taking place here, because he doesn't have to travel and for two hours he doesn't have to be the boss. He wasn't surprised when Director Jenny Shepherd had expressed the same sentiments a short while ago. He glances at the woman at his side.

"It's good to see people enjoying themselves here," Shepherd says as they watch the festivities from the throng's edge.

"You don't think people enjoy their time at NCIS?" he asks with a secret smile.

"It's not the same. Family, friends, loved ones..." she can't keep a note of wistfulness from her voice, even knowing it takes far less to give herself away to her companion. They are both here unescorted tonight.

"What do you say," he asks quietly, "to a bottle of brandy I've been saving? In your office?"

She looks up to him with an affectionate smile. "I say you always have the best ideas."

x

People drift away from the window to expand the party back throughout the room, the crowd breaks into smaller groups. Tim and Siobhan linger, momentarily alone. "You're so beautiful tonight," he tells her quietly. Her usual 'uniform' is black pants and pale blue shirt with the notable inch high stiff white collar that encircles her throat. Tonight she wears a ruby dress that to Tim suggests a precious gem, while red high heeled shoes bring her to his height.

"Thank you, Timmy."

"Cheers." He raises his glass of champagne.

"Sláinte." She still tries, whenever she can, to teach him some of their shared heritage; an advantage being privacy. But though their glasses ring softly, before she can take a sip, he speaks.

"To the most lovely and loving woman in the world."

She's flattered, takes a sip of the champagne to try to cover her feelings at the depth of this surprising toast. "Thank you, Timmy."

She wonders why she feels so shy. She is not shy with him; it has been far too many years for that, so she has no idea what makes tonight feel so different.

Tim considers his toast a woefully inadequate understatement. Siobhan's red hair is swept back and a small golden cross on a necklace is her only ornamentation, while the ruby dress she wears is heart-stoppingly flattering. To him, she has never been anything other than the most beautiful woman on Earth.

x

"Karaoke!" someone calls loudly.

"Yes! Who's up?"

Tim tries to nudge Siobhan forward. "No, Timmy, not me."

"Come on, Shav," he draws her back toward the bullpen, "you've got a gorgeous voice." He particularly remembers her rendition of 'You raise me up' at the recent Christmas pageant at Saint Mary's.

She stops him at the entrance. "For singing _Hymns_, not Pop – the measure's all different."

"Come on."

But she stands her ground, her hands raised to ward off his urges, "Timmy, _no_!" Her brogue grows sharper with her emphasis.

"You tell him," Michelle Palmer says. "The one time I was compelled to sing in public, I wound up _engaged_."

Most join in the laughter and a few people who have imbibed more than their fellows are prevailed upon to add their questionable talents to the mix. Though Kevin Lamb's effort raises images of a constipated moose, some do surprisingly well; none more so than Ziva. Her rendition of 'Fever' silences the room; holds everyone spellbound until applause threaten to burst the windows.

It is one-thirty when the party gradually winds down. Some are obliged to begin work while others must see themselves home for rest before the start of their own shifts.

xxx

Tim drives Siobhan O'Mallory back to the Rectory of St. Mary the Virgin Church; the light snow requires only the occasional brush of wipers to clear the windshield. The trip to New York Avenue NW isn't particularly long, but he's in no hurry to get there. The falling white provides a decorative enhancement to the city; it flutters in the illumination of street lamps and dances in headlights to cover the city in a thin sheet that barely hides the colors of parked cars. As they near their destination, Tim becomes aware during a lull in their conversation of very soft humming from beside him. "You're in good spirits – or are good spirits in you?"

She laughs, a little embarrassed. "I'm afraid some of the latter, a chuisle. But I'm not drunk. Happy, but not drunk; I don't get drunk."

Her brogue is a gently flowing river he would be content to sail on forever. Her Gaelic endearment comes to 'my beloved', literally 'my pulse', from the longer 'mo chuisle a croi', 'pulse of my heart'.

"I remember that night in Sophomore year after that game against Boston when –"

"_H__ush_! Really, an old friend with a good memory is a trial indeed," she puts her hand upon his arm. That night had been well over fifteen years ago, when she'd been a very enthusiastic High School cheerleader and thoughts of a Clerical life were non-existent. "Here's hoping the New Year is better than the old."

"I don't know; that year had some good points."

"Some _very_ good, cara." She leans against him as closely as she might against the restraining belt. "Athbhliain shona duit."

"And to you too, darling; may it be a wonderful one." Since they'd gotten back together in a more serious relationship, she'd begun to teach him some of their shared heritage, including language. It allows them to exchange private words. He'd taken the lessons at first just for the beauty of hearing her.

x

As they drive in silence for a few moments, late fireworks occasionally punctuate the snowy night, and Tim steals glances at her. Her long white coat and one-in-a-million red hair remind him of a snow sprite.

"Timmy, what?"

"What?"

"You keep looking at me."

"Can't help it, you're too beautiful not to look at." And he has lost too many years with her, but no longer.

"Thank you," she's flattered and cuddles closer, whispering, "Tá mé i ngrá leat."

"I love you too, but you make it hard to drive."

"So pull over."

"Too late, we're here," he turns right and stops the car on the curb facing the black metal gate of the church parking lot.

"Darn." She could wish for another hour before they reached the huge Gothic structure.

"Tsk, tsk, such language."

x

He picks the pocket of her white coat and gets out of the car before she can protest, closes out the freezing air. He unlocks the gate, ignores the snow that falls lightly over his long black coat for he is warm enough from the woman's closeness, and pushes the portal wide. After he drives through, he recloses the gate but leaves the lock off. As soon as he settles in again Siobhan snuggles closer, her arms about his.

"You're in a mood," he observes, not about to hinder her.

"Have I ever told you how romantic I think fireworks are?" Freed of the belt, she leans closer to him and he is not slow to take the invitation when she brings her lips up in reach of his. It is a few minutes spent warming up from the two brief exposures before he shifts the car out of neutral and circles the lot so her door will be close to that of the Rectory.

All the lights are off inside. There had been a celebration in Hamilton Hall, but obviously the scores of guests have gone home. When Siobhan looks up to the second floor of the Rectory she sees Fr. Donaldson's lights are off. She's in no hurry to get out of the car; she wishes this night would never end. "You didn't answer my question," she reminds him.

"No, no you haven't. But I'm glad to know."

Tim doesn't want the night to end so soon and is sure she feels the same, so he pushes a CD already in the dashboard drive into place and presses the play button.

x

The flute and violin melody that comes from the speakers is instantly familiar to Siobhan. Though she knows the music to be decades old, titled 'Ruth' from Star Trek's 'Shore Leave', she remembers when she'd found it in his collection and learned he'd programmed it as 'Siobhan's Theme'. She'd found it when they were on their way to a county fair, an afternoon together that was understood to very definitely not be a 'date'. It had been something that he'd never intended to reveal, and at the time the discovery had embarrassed him, particularly since he'd already been deeply committed to another woman. The discovery had started a day that had changed their lives.

She turns about in the seat to face him but doesn't resist as he draws her closer so she winds up lying cradled in his arms. He supports her for a long kiss. To Siobhan, there is no better melody for kissing her beloved Timmy.

She's grateful for the privacy of the snowy lot. It is nearly 2:00 and they are alone for the first time in too many days. Now she can look up and see the snow that encloses them in this privacy that hides them from the world.

Normally when they can see each other it is at Headquarters, or on a date in public. While in those latter times she is dressed inconspicuously, she normally does not go out of the church into the public without her traditional attire. Therefore she has always had to be so conscious of being alone with him; always aware of the impression she gives to the public, always so careful of her image and reputation. Now that they are openly dating, privacy and solitude are opportunities she particularly treasures. "Timmy," she whispers up to him over the violins, "tá mé i ngrá leat."

"I love you too."

No passion burns in their warm embrace and warmer kisses; just the opportunity, so rarely accorded, to share their love openly. Here, in private darkness, they can share without regard to others who might see only a Federal Agent and a Priest.

"Timmy?" she whispers softly against his lips.

"Darling?" She lies supported in his arms so she can look up at him. The snow on the windshield closes them in, heaven granting privacy.

"Tonight …" she kisses him again, "tonight I could wish I could invite you in…"

He smiles, knowing her mind. After close to twenty years, it's so easy, and yet so hard. "But you're a good girl," he reminds her.

x

She sighs; he's right. Not only must she be ever cautious not to step over some perceived or imagined line her congregation would not tolerate, but they do not _have _a physical relationship. That is a part of their romance distinctly absent and he hasn't pushed. Too much has happened, too much trauma, for her to possibly be ready for that.

They're no longer teenagers; the behavior of carefree and reckless youth is far in the past, in their old lives. After four tumultuous years together, he'd gone to MIT, she'd gone to New York, and only two years ago had they reunited. But in that time, while he'd become an agent, she'd become a priest.

Now it's nearly twenty years since they'd first met and since those High School years so much has changed.

"But I'm a good woman," she admits with what sounds to him very much like a sad sigh, one she covers by cuddling closer and kissing him. She reaches up, fixes an unruly bit of his brown hair that has come aside in their ardor. "So many choices I've made, but tonight," she whispers, "I could wish…." She doesn't finish, covers her thought with a kiss.

The music has ended and in the silence, her lips to his, she feels his words as much as hears them.

"Marry me?"

x

Siobhan goes still, fearing, certain, that she has misheard. She pulls back from his lips, her voice hushed. "What did you say?"

"I just asked you to be my wife."

The universe turns over as she looks up into the face of the man she's known for so long, sees only sincerity in his eyes. Still all she can manage is a soft, breathy whisper. "You mean that."

"Yes, I mean it. Siobhan, will you marry me?"

x

She sits up, pushes herself upright and turns forward in the seat. Her heart pounds, she can barely think over the drumbeat in her ears. Outside, the swirling snow continues to cover the world with a thin sheet of white and she struggles to grasp her thoughts. She realizes she's shaking and clutches her hands to stop them. "I… this is so _sudden_!"

"Shav, we're been together – on and off I admit – since we were teens. If we don't know by _now_ that we're compatible –"

"Yes, I _know_, but … I mean you're right, it's been a - long time for a courtship," she admits shakily. "And it's not like I haven't dreamed of it – I mean thought of it – I mean dreamed – it's just that it was never like–" she waves her hand vaguely at the car and the snow that dusts the lot, the white on the windshield has sealed them in.

"You need time to think about it." He can hear in her thickened brogue how shaken she is.

"Yes." She manages to look at him. "No. I mean I … Oh God, please help me; I don't _know_ what I mean. I feel – I feel like the world's tilting and it's going to dump me off. I'm drunk. I mean, I'm not drunk – I don't get drunk - but I must have gotten drunk and _passed out_ and this is a – I –" she pulls the gold framed glasses from her eyes with trembling hands. The world vanishes in a shapeless mist, but she can't hide, not when he deserves an answer. And God help her, after years of dreaming of this moment, she doesn't have one.

She rubs her eyes, her temples; tries to stall, tries to organize her thoughts. She can't. What's left of her thoughts are as unclear and chaotic as her vision.

She pulls the gold glasses back on; the world reappears out of the blur. But unable to endure the confusion, she grasps the door handle and yanks it, opens the door to a blast of frigid air that slaps her face. She gets out, clings to the door to avoid slipping in her red high-heeled shoes. Her heart pounds in her chest; she still feels the world try to tip her off. She bends to look back into the car.

"Timmy, I –" but the longer she hesitates the more the words elude her. All she may do is close the door, her heart aches when she can bring herself to look at his face, to see the hurt.

She closes the door with a trembling hand and he puts the car in 'drive', slowly moves toward the gate. She ascends the four steps up to the Rectory door, shaking, doesn't feel the cold. She turns on the top step, looks back and snow hits her face in a gust of wind. The car has passed the gate and he gets out to close it. She watches him pull it, it starts to close–

x

"_TIMMY_!" Her yell shatters the night. He looks back as she leaps recklessly from the steps, catches herself on the rail and runs, slips precariously on the dusting of white, races across the lot as he hurries to meet her. In her mad dash her high heel slips in the slick snow and she stumbles, her body goes faster than she can balance. She tries to right herself and slams into him, their arms tight about one another. "YES! Oh God _Yes_!"

"Yes?"

"YES!"

It's several minutes, standing warm in the falling snow, before any more words can be said.

x

When she pulls back, Siobhan realizes she can no longer feel the winter air or the snow that swirls about them and she tries to get her mind to work. "A chuisle, if we're going to do this – two things?"

"Anything."

"We don't say anything until we're ready. No one knows until we work it out."

"No problem." He still has to figure out where to get a ring. A moment later he realizes there are far more things to work out. "And?"

"I'm not doing a Palmer."

He laughs. Jimmy Palmer had agreed with Michelle Lee in the fall upon a date of May 1, five months from today. Then he'd had set up a warp-speed wedding that had nearly doomed the marriage before it had begun. Only love and a great measure of luck had saved it.

"I don't care when it is, I'm going to marry you."

She gives him a gentle push. "But for tonight, a ghile mear, my dashing darling, go _home_. Get some sleep. You'll probably think better of this in the morning."

"I couldn't think better of it than I do right now."

x

He walks her back to the Rectory steps, his excuse the gallant one of making certain she doesn't slip on the snow. It is quite some time before she watches from the top step as he returns to his car. He pulls and locks the gate, drives away with a wave before she fishes the keys out of her white coat and unlocks the door.

Inside the foyer she removes her white coat, shakes out the snow and hangs it on the stand before going through the inner door into the living room. Her glasses immediately fog over in the warm air. She pulls a cloth from her pocket, removes the useless aids, the fog instantly worsening. The only sound in the invisible room is the ticking of the ancient grandfather clock to her left. She cleans the lenses and pulls the gold frames back on, the living room appears from the indistinguishable haze.

She doesn't turn on a light; the dim light that filters in from the parking lot and the street beyond is enough. Before her is the dining room, to its left is the kitchen, which far door meets the hallway to her left to surround the staircase to the second floor.

She goes through that left door to the hall and starts up the stairs, but gets only one step up when the cell phone at her hip starts to play 'Ode to Joy'. Never has it seemed so appropriate a selection.

She pulls it off her belt, smiles as she reads the name displayed on the outer lid. She flips it up to stop the music and says softly, "Hóigh?"

/Did you know I'm the happiest man in the world?/

"I'm the happiest woman. Now go to _bed_."

/I'll be right back./

She laughs. "Ádhraim thú."

/I adore you too./

x

She closes the phone, tucks it away and quietly ascends the dark stairs, her spirits many steps above her, her mind awhirl with happy anticipation and delightful plans. "Mrs. Siobhan O'Mallory-McGee," she tries, but shakes her head as she turns left and starts down the short hallway, past Donaldson's room and into her own bedroom, the second on her right.

She closes the door, her eyes already used to the dimness. There's just enough light coming in through the windows for her not to have to sting her eyes with the lamp.

"No," she whispers, having tried the name several times and not liking the flavor of it. She reaches back and unzips the ruby dress, "Mrs. Siobhan McGee." That tastes better, she decides as she steps out of the dress and lays it on the bed at her right. "Reverend Siobhan McGee." That tastes even better. She pictures the change to the sign outside the Church.

"Mother McGee." She giggles, has to admit that she probably is a bit tipsy, though not from champagne. She'd had little to eat and less to drink so she decides the effect is from the sudden change to come in her life. As she reaches back and unclips the hooks of her bra, she sings softly the tune of an Irish ballad, "God bless you and keep you, Mother McGee."

A hand clutches her fingers in an agonizing vice, another rough hand clamps over her mouth and nose smothers her shriek, cuts off her air. She's forced forward against the edge of the bed and topples over; the heavy body crushes her into the mattress. She strains to breathe against the large smothering hand, her fingers crushed behind her. She can't scream, can't breathe as the body shifts upward, shoves her face into the mattress.

Terrified, she kicks wildly, her empty lungs crushed as the hand wrenches her fingers. She strains for air as the world spins, her pounding heart loud in her ears.

As much as she tries, she can't breathe! She claws at the hand smothering her, digs her nails in, bites as hard as she can, nothing helps! Pain grows in her empty lungs. Everything is spinning, terror drives her but nothing helps!

Her face is pressed down harder, sharp pain cuts into her right temple. Her heart slams, loud in her ears, threatens to drown out all else. She bites harder, digs her nails into the hand and arm with all her strength. Panic and the smothering hand rob her of sense. The world spins, darkens, fades away.

The final thing she hears as everything goes black is a rough, hate filled voice grating in her ear.

"Say goodbye _bitch_!"


	2. Burial

Chapter Two  
Burial

Reverend George Donaldson looks from his newspaper to the clock on his desk, then to the desk to his right, surprised to find it's 9:40 and he's still alone. By now his partner should be preparing for her turn to hear 10:00 confession. Even if she intended to go directly into the Church, she'd still have come in long ago.

He goes to the door and looks right down the hall. "Ellen?" Ellen Meyers looks out of her office, last door on the left, "have you seen Siobhan?"

"Not this morning, Father."

"Thank you." It's unlike the woman not to exchange a word of greeting in the morning, and certainly long before this. He's said Morning Prayer but has little more to do until noon and might lose track of time; but on the morning she's on call she would not. It's Siobhan's turn to hear Confession, then they'll Concelebrate the Holy Name Day service at noon.

She'd been out at NCIS last night; he wonders how late she'd gotten in. "She can't still be asleep," he mutters. She always has her radio set for 6:00 even if it's not her turn to say Morning Prayer.

He turns about, goes through the door at the left end of the hall into the Rectory, past the kitchen and up the stairs to the second floor, walks down the hall, raps on her door.

"Siobhan, you decent?" There's no answer, though he can hear the newscaster's voice on her radio. "Come on, sleepyhead, it's Holy Name Day." He hardly feels he needs to remind her of how much they have to do. There won't be crowds this winter morning, but when has that been relevant? He knocks again. "Siobhan?" 'She can't be asleep', he repeats to himself. He listens carefully, hears nothing but the radio. "_Siobhan_!"

Something has to be wrong. Normally he would never open the door without her reply, but this feels wrong. He hits the door sharply, one last 'warning', then turns the knob, opens the door and surprise halts him.

x

On the disheveled red comforter lie Siobhan's wrinkled ruby dress and a discarded bra, together with a broken golden chain, a tiny golden cross beside it. The foot of the bed is pushed out over a foot off line. For someone as meticulous as Siobhan, this scene is shockingly messy. Then he sees the broken gold framed glasses that lie at the far edge of the bed and alarming jumps to frightening.

His cell phone is in his hand in an instant. There are two calls he could make, but his years of service in the Corps and Siobhan's ties make the choice a simple one.

xxx

Less than twenty minutes later a blue Dodge Charger slides to a barely controlled stop in inches of snow piled by a plow near the curb in front of the Church, a black and white truck halting almost on its bumper. Donaldson holds the foyer door open as Special Agent Gibbs gets out of the car with two women. Two men get out of the truck and Special Agent Timothy McGee outruns everyone to the door, taking the four steps in nearly one leap. "What _happened_?"

While the younger Agent's demand borders on frantic, a single word from the team leader, just his name, reins him in. It's to him that Donaldson says; "I went to her room when she didn't come down to the office, knocked and when I opened the door she wasn't there. The bed hadn't been slept in but the room's a mess."

"Take us there."

There are three possible routes; through Hamilton Hall to their left, presently in use for the Senior Nutrition program; through the garden before them or the Cathedral-like church to the right. The best way to cross and not attract attention is through the garden.

Since last night it had snowed nearly four inches, the large rectangular space between Saint Mary's and Hamilton Hall rests under a blanket of virgin white. Theirs are the only footsteps to disturb the path. Then it's a right turn into the corridor, past the offices, Vesting rooms and Sacristy to the Rectory door at the end.

Gibbs, in front of the group with the priest, finds the entry to be a short hallway; to their immediate left is an open doorway to a kitchen, the hall before them edges a staircase to terminate in the living room. The staircase that ascends back toward the kitchen, it is at their foot, near the living room door, that Gibbs halts them.

The stairs are uncarpeted, the living room seen through the vacant doorway before them is wall-to-wall shag, the hall they stand in is hardwood. "Is this the only way up and down?" It only seems to be; he takes nothing for granted.

"Yes."

He glances at the other agents. "Preservation protocol, right." Then he addresses the priest, his words not a request. "Step in our footsteps."

"I didn't call," McGee says bitterly, recrimination drowning his voice. "It was late, I thought I was letting her sleep. I waited for her - _I didn't call_!"

Gibbs, in turning to tell the man 'first things first' catches DiNozzo's eyes. They say this isn't the first time McGee had assaulted himself.

x

He leads the way up and steps as far to the right as possible, not touching the handrail, using only his toes and the balls of his feet on the very edge of each step. The cautious entry is intended to preserve any footprints that can be lifted later. He also notes, as he ascends, the well maintained, uncarpeted wood. "When was the last time these steps were cleaned?" With luck, what he sees is recent.

"They're mopped at least once a week," the priest answers from the bottom of the stairs as the agents pass him. It's no surprise to the man that Tim McGee is almost on his boss' heels. He can read in McGee's body language that the distressed agent would have led the charge if not for his chief's caution.

"You have someone to clean the place?" Gibbs asks from the top of the stairs.

"Only the first floor; the Sexton and some of the same people in the parish who keep the rest of the buildings in order," Donaldson says as he starts his ascent, his steps as cautious as the others' had been. He can't escape a slash of self-recrimination that he'd thoughtlessly come along these stairs several times already. "I don't let anyone but Siobhan and myself on the second floor."

Gibbs, at the head of the halted line, turns to fix him with a piercing stare. "These are our private quarters," Donaldson explains, finding himself momentarily falling back to old manners of speech with his fellow ex-Gunnery Sergeant.

"Boss, can we talk about this upstairs?" DiNozzo, between the women and the priest, appeals while perched on the edge of the steps, rear halves of his feet in the air.

x

The corridor they enter at a left turn runs from a window behind them to one before, there are three doors to their right. "How about you, McGee," Gibbs persists as they look down the hardwood path. "Ever been up here?"

Gibbs doesn't like the distress he sees in the man's eyes as McGee turns from looking down the hall. "Never!"

It's clear to Gibbs that the man wants to lead the charge now and with great difficulty holds himself in tight check. Instead of confronting him, he gives Tony a warning glance. Under other circumstances the man might come out with some DiNozzoism regarding his partner's relationship with the woman priest; with the tension high in the air he doesn't want to hear any. Fortunately, Tony seems wise enough to know it. "Which door is hers?" Gibbs asks the priest.  
"The middle one."

x

Tim McGee can barely hold himself back. He knows the uselessness of letting his emotions overwhelm rational thought and systematic investigation, but 'damn it, we're going too slow!'

He's frantic, wants to run, to break through everything, find her, solve this _now_! All he can think of is Shav in deadly danger. It's been only a few hours since they were so happy together, since he'd asked his beloved to marry him! He'd been reeling since last night that she'd said 'yes', his head had been in the clouds all morning. He'd let her sleep, didn't call. 'Damn it, I should've _called_! I should've _been _here! Damn the rules, I should've come up here! She'd said I should come in, she wished I could've come in. I should've stayed and _damn _the rules!'

Then that nightmare call. She should be _safe_. They should be ecstatic, talking secretly to one another on the phone, making a thousand plans. This shouldn't be happening!

x

He also knows Gibbs will not tolerate anything less than professionalism. Given a reason, he'll bounce him from this case. He can't do that! He _can't_!

x

They pause outside the second open door; the first they'd glanced in in passing, it'd had been the Rector's room. Gibbs stands in front beside Donaldson; McGee and DiNozzo, David and Palmer collected behind them. "This is how you found it?" Gibbs asks.

The room is generally neat, the disturbance therefore more notable. The bed, a twin of the one they'd passed the first room, stretches from the corridor wall to their right out and away from them to separate the room. The bed is out of line, the lower end pushed over a foot right toward the narrower side of the room.

The wider portion of the room is before them and left, one must go around the bed to the right to reach closets. Beside to the right and nearly flush with the doorframe is a night table, upon which is a lamp, upright padded eyeglass holder and clock radio. The latter is tuned to a news station and still on, the droning voice ignored.

On the left side of the room are two dressers; on the far one near the corner stands a small television with cable unit. At the far wall between two windows is a desk and secretary chair, the most notable thing on the desk is a closed laptop computer. The thin curtains on either side of the desk do not obscure a view of the street.

Against the far right corner is a bookcase crammed with books. Gibbs had heard from Abby about the priest's library room in her destroyed apartment; he figures O'Mallory had obtained some replacements from book-sales and yard-sales. Some look new, others donations from parishioners?

x

The disorder on the bed is more notable for the overall tidiness of the room. The red comforter is considerably rumpled, testament to a violent struggle. The ruby dress O'Mallory had worn to last night's party lies across the bed, partially hanging off the edge; a casualty of the struggle. A pale pink bra lies open in the midst of the contained chaos, the closures point from the bed's head toward its foot. The tiny golden cross she'd worn last night lies beside a broken chain.

It's the bra that's the most ominous. It's at the proper distance from the glasses and severed chain that lie near the edge of the mattress had each come off her body in the apparent struggle.

The right earpiece of the gold-framed glasses is snapped off; it lies three inches from the lenses, the left side folded over.

One red high-heeled shoe lies in the middle of the room before them; it's not stepped out of, it lies on its side well away from the bed as though thrown to the floor. From where the agents stand in the hall they can see the other red shoe lying on its side near the closet on the opposite side of the bed.

Gibbs looks back, sees the stricken look in McGee's eyes, but he won't say anything if the man can control himself. Instead he turns to the priest at his left. "Please stay out here. DiNozzo."

"On it, boss," Tony assures them, steps past and into the room, carrying a large camera and a tall stack of yellow broken triangle number signs. He'll shoot the room with a multitude of light filters, take distant and close shots from every angle and log each shot on the microcassette recorder in his shirt pocket.

x

"You don't think she's...?" Donaldson can't contain his apprehension a moment longer.

"If she were dead, she'd be here." He will not say, either to Donaldson or McGee, that this is meaningless. She could very well _be_ dead, her body taken, hidden – or worse.

However, until he knows definitely, this case will be treated as a kidnapping.

"Of course," the priest admits; his anxiety unabated.

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"Last evening, about 8:30, in the living room. She was watching a movie, waiting for Agent McGee to pick her up. The party was just beginning."

"She didn't go to the party?"

Donaldson shakes his head. "People were starting to arrive, the scheduled time was nine. Siobhan didn't want to go in dressed as she was; she tries to keep her professional and private lives separate."

"You were in uniform?"

It might be an odd way of asking, but the two Gunnies understand one another. Donaldson wears, then and now, the traditional black suit and shirt with squared tab of white at his throat. O'Mallory's uniform is the less traditional pale blue shirt over black pants and her white collar is an attachment to the shirt and completely encircles her throat. In summer, her variation is short sleeves and a skirt. Including last night, Gibbs can count on one hand the number of times he's seen her dressed differently.

He points to the broken glasses at the far edge of the bed. "Are those her only pair?"

Donaldson hesitates, apparently trying to remember. "I think she keeps an old set in her desk drawer downstairs. Once her lens got scratched; she had to wear the old pair while she waited for it to be replaced. Those," he nods toward the broken pair, "are the only ones she wears."

"Glasses have springs on the earpieces; you can bend them out about thirty degrees. Takes some force to snap them."

"There's blood on the broken earpiece and the comforter, boss," DiNozzo reports from inside the room as he snaps close shots with the large camera from several angles. It will take several minutes more for his sweep to be finished.

"Any more?"

"None that I can see. Red's not the best color."

"Palmer, break out the Luminal." Michelle kneels down, opens the black evidence bag she carried up and pulls out a can. "McGee, where did you drop her off? Out front?" When the answer is silence, he turns to the younger man who stares into the bedroom, his anxious thoughts plain upon his face. "_McGee_!"

"Err, sorry boss. No, in the parking lot out back." He cocks his head slightly toward the window at the other end of the hall.

Gibbs reads in the man's clenched fists, in the fire that burns in his eyes, what he is thinking. He decides to give the man one chance, due to his relationship with O'Mallory, but that was it. "Keep your head on straight, McGee. I'll only tell you once."

"Got it, boss."

DiNozzo, hearing this from inside the room, decides McGee should get an Oscar for the restraint in his voice.

x

Gibbs gives McGee a sharp look of warning and then goes to the window, glancing through the last door in line, unsurprised to find the bathroom. Behind him, he hears the droning voice of the news announcer cease as DiNozzo turns off the radio, the better to hear the conversation in the hallway. "Come here, McGee," Gibbs directs from the closed window.

Down below they can see the snow covered lot. The far gate is wide open, the bars have cut furrows in the snow. There are twelve cars in the lot, nine have dug diverging tracks into the once virgin white, and many foot paths lead back out the gate. None approach the Rectory door below them.

There are two cars near the Rectory door that are both snow covered and show no trails, visible from their sides as a blue Corolla and a green Ford Fiesta, while a white van prominently labeled 'St. Mary the Virgin Nutrition Program' stands a third of the way across the open expanse. "How many cars were down there when you were here?"

McGee thinks intently, tries to visualize the scene, but he'd been more attentive to what was going on inside his car rather than outside it. "I'm not sure."

"_Be_ sure!"

x

Gibbs understands the man's consternation; he supposes he wouldn't have anticipated the fact could become important either. He also knows that if a car had been used in abducting O'Mallory, that would have been very shortly after the snow had begun to fall and the trail will be indistinguishable now. "Think about it, McGee. Think hard."

"I _am_."

"Trace _your_ path."

"We came in, I drove around that way," he points out the path he'd taken around the lot, "so the passenger door would be by the steps." There's no trail to mark the man's route. "She went up the steps, I drove straight to the gate, she ran after me and we stood for a few minutes by the gate. Then we walked back, she went up the steps, I drove out, locked the gate and left."

"Why did she run after you?"

"Err…" McGee recalls Siobhan's admonition about secrecy until they are ready, "it's personal, boss."

"McGee, this is an investigation. _Nothing's_ personal!"

"Boss, the point is that it'd only been snowing for a little while; there was barely a half inch of snow on the ground, maybe not that much. You can't see any of our tracks," he points to the few steps that lead into the Rectory, "you can't even see her footprints." There are, in fact, no prints at all; nothing approaches the Rectory to disturb the smooth white blanket of snow.

"The snowfall last night," Ziva announces from near the bedroom door behind them, "was four point two inches, according to the NWS. The main body of the storm lasted from three o'clock until it ended at approximately eight forty five."

Their evidence is well buried.


	3. Search

Chapter Three  
Search

"Father Donaldson," Gibbs calls, "is there any other way in or out of this building?"

"The way past the kitchen that we came in is the main one through the buildings. Going out through the living room downstairs you come to the foyer and outer door below that window. The door locks from inside or out, but there's also a chain on the door.

"No other doors, fire exits?"

"Only the two, parking lot and into the office hallway."

x

When McGee turns from the window at the priest's tone, he's struck by the image the familiar man presents. With his black hair and traditional clothing, the black on black image could be a forbidding one that's usually softened by the man's eyes. This morning they burn.

McGee suspects his own do too.

"If you leave by the hallway past the kitchen where we came in, the Sacristy door to your left leads to the Sanctuary, the Altar; through the Church the main door at the end of the aisle opens onto the avenue. The narthex door on the right leads into the foyer where you came in between the Church and Hamilton Hall.

"If you leave here past the kitchen through the hallway, then opposite the Sacristy is the bathroom on your right, then next on left and right are the Vesting room and our office, then Ellen Meyers' office and the Acolyte Vesting room. The far door is, of course, the entrance to Hamilton Hall. Out the left door past Ellen's office leads to the garden where we came in, that joins the foyer past the Chapel. On the right opposite Ellen Meyers office are the stairs that lead to the basement."

"What's down there?"

"The Sunday School, storage rooms ... The only other exit on the main level is an emergency exit across the front of Hamilton Hall that runs the length of the hall to a ramp where the handicapped can come and go. The only other way out of the Hall is through the glass door back to the foyer that opens on the avenue and leads back into the church."

Gibbs doesn't believe that whoever took O'Mallory used any circuitous route. "Ziva, check the living room door to the parking lot, careful on the stairs. Father, do you keep the chain on?"

"Usually. When we're both in, it's usually on."

"What if one thinks the other one is in but isn't?"

"The doorbell is very loud, it rings downstairs and up," he points to a bell back at the top of the stairs by the other window. As Ziva reaches the stairs, she looks out the window.

"A slanted roof, shingles weathered smooth, I would say a 40 degree incline and no break in the snow. It is a challenge if forcing an unwilling, or carrying an unconscious, victim." She descends the steps; doesn't notice the effect her words have upon those left behind.

x

"Father, how many people have access up here?" Gibbs continues. Though the question's been answered already, the priests do have an employee and volunteers to keep the buildings in order.

"I don't allow anyone up here." Donaldson tells him definitely. "I'll entertain guests downstairs, but up here are our living quarters. Until Siobhan moved in after her apartment was blown up, _she _didn't come up here either."

"Shav was the same way," McGee tells them, his voice still stressed. "When she lived in her own apartment, she was very cautious of appearances. She felt people watched her and would talk if she had anyone up in her place. The only time I was ever there was when I dropped Abby off when Mawher stalked her. I didn't even stay for more than a minute. Whenever we met, we'd meet downstairs." He looks back to her room, his expression haunted. "I've never been up here before."

Donaldson's nod not only confirms this but tells Gibbs the motivation is partially the same for the priest. Not only is it a matter of privacy, of keeping an area where he could be completely free of public life but it's also cautious concern for reputation.

x

Gibbs recalls McGee had related, months ago, how the decision to move O'Mallory into the Rectory had not been well received. The arrangement had been intended to be only temporary.

McGee had said the issue of money had most affected the search for a new place for the woman to live. She'd been moved into the room of the former Curate, a Father Schwint, who'd left over three years ago. O'Mallory had succeeded him but the issue of a woman priest living in the Rectory had so inflamed some vocal members of the parish that she'd secured an apartment about a mile distant. When Mikel Mawher had blown it up during the summer in an attempt to kill Abby Sciuto, the woman had literally lost everything. She'd had no choice but to move into the vacant room.

It was a contentious issue that was not expected to be resolved. The pair had decided to let the bickering go on without it touching them until both sides of the debate exhausted themselves and two priests-in-residence resumed being the norm.

x

"What time did you get to bed, Father?"

"After the last guest in the hall left, maybe about one, one thirty."

Gibbs turns to McGee. "What time did you drop O'Mallory off?"

"Pretty close to two, I think."

"You _think_?"

"Two o'clock."

Donaldson's mind is in turmoil, thoughts carefully hidden behind a practiced mask. This is little more than a half hour after he'd gone to bed. 'I should have heard something! I could've _saved _her!'

x

The leading edge of the heavy snowstorm was still entering Washington at that hour. It had stalled in Virginia, then slipped through after two thirty and had socked the city with more than four inches before it moved toward the Atlantic. If O'Mallory had been taken just after two, the trail is well buried.

x

Ziva returns up the stairs. "The door is locked but the chain is not on."

"She would have locked up."

"You're _certain_?" Gibbs insists. He doesn't trust certainties.

"That's what she usually does."

"If she _was_ taken out that way, then who locked the door?"

"It locks automatically."

Gibbs doesn't allow his thoughts to reach his face. Damned automatics sometimes ruin the best chances for evidence.

"Her keys were in her coat pocket." McGee tells them.

"White coat on the stand by the door?" Ziva asks.

"Yes."

"I checked; the keys are still in the right hand pocket."

"Let's concentrate first on how whoever it was got in." Gibbs commands, trying to find something that they _do _have. "Father, who was here last night?"

"Everyone was invited to the New Year's party last evening; it's safer than driving the roads, and excellent for those who live alone. We had over 70 people, Ellen and I can put together a list. We'll mark a copy of the parish directory. We car-pooled everyone out between 12:30 and when I locked up about 1:00."

"Could anyone get into the Rectory without your knowing it?"

"We had three men cooking food in the kitchen so we wouldn't mess things up for the Nutrition Program in the Hall. I told everyone to let everything soak in the sink; I'd attend to it this morning. It was pretty much an open house - down here."

"Anyone in the kitchen could see someone come in through the door and head to the stairs?"

He nods. "Upstairs is 'off-limits', I've never had a problem with anyone respecting that."

One reaches the stairs after passing the kitchen; they come back up over that room. "So a stranger might not be able to get up here and hide until O'Mallory came in, but someone the staff knew and trusted might slip through?"

It's clear Donaldson loathes considering this disturbing question, but he nods.

x

"Who was in here?" On getting the names, Gibbs knows his next question will be far more discomforting, not even needing Donaldson's expected assurance of the trust he has in each of them. "Is there anyone you can think of that might have done this to her?"

"God, no. The only name that comes to mind is Charlie Morley, and he's safely behind bars."

Morley had been tried last month for a series of gruesome murders over the summer. He'd been sentenced to two consecutive life sentences plus twenty-five without the possibility of parole in Federal Penitentiary Lee, a maximum-security prison. Donaldson, O'Mallory, the murdered women's families and many parishioners had been in the courtroom when the madman had been dragged away.

"No, Agent Gibbs, I can't think of a single person who would do this."

"We need to know who she knew, who she associated with; datebook, contact list, anyone she might have interacted with."

He considers. "It'll be in her laptop," he nods to the closed machine on the desk in the far left corner, "and on her Palm Pilot. That'll either be in her handbag or she normally keeps it in her desk drawer downstairs."

"McGee, pick them up later."

x

"Done," DiNozzo says from the bedroom door. "You can come in now."

When the investigators enter, they find that everything loose or displaced in the room has an upright yellow and black number marker set next to it. To Gibbs and the others, the scene paints a disturbing image. He's less interested in the gross evidence; the dress, bra, shoes and glasses as he is in the details. To someone with his experience, the scene permits what he considers to be a reasonable reconstruction.

"She took off her dress," Gibbs points to where it lies on the left side of the rumpled comforter, near the foot of and half off the bed. "Whoever it was took her from behind, forced her onto the bed."

"Her bra wasn't pulled apart," DiNozzo reports, having checked the tiny clasps and rings, "maybe she'd already opened it when he attacked." He must ignore McGee's glare; pieces _have_ to be put together, no matter how unpleasant the picture.

"Her glasses were pressed into the mattress," Michelle notes. "See where the indentation shows she was held face down."

"More pressure to the right side," Ziva observes. "The perpetrator was right handed, you can see the indentation of his hand and arm. He turned her slightly to the left."

"It snapped the hinge," Gibbs concludes, "blood got on the earpiece from where it cut her. You didn't hear anything, Father, because her mouth was covered." He will not make it a question. He knows that Donaldson, while on Active Duty a Marine Gunnery Sergeant, would have charged to O'Mallory's rescue if he'd heard anything.

The only other signs of the struggle are the misaligned bed, rumpled comforter and thrown shoes. "Her legs were free, she tried to kick out." DiNozzo finishes the reconstruction. "One shoe landed on this side, the other way over there."

"I doubt she was raped here," Ziva speculates. She catches the looks in both Donaldson's and McGee's eyes. "The disturbance to the bed is insufficient to account for–"

"_ZIVA_!" McGee's anger is hot enough to sear her.

"I am saying it likely did not–"

"McGee, bag and tag!" Gibbs cuts through the confrontation. He wants investigation, not speculation and outrage. "Palmer, the Luminal."

"Right here, sir."

x

Everything on the bed, and each of the shoes, is secured in separate bags, identified by location and nature, and each bag sealed and signed. Then all the lights that can be turned off are, shades drawn before the two windows. The result is inadequate, but they cannot wait for nightfall.

Since Luminal will react with the proteins in blood for about thirty seconds, they must coordinate their work. Palmer sprays a coating from the aerosol can upon the bed, then the carpet. Every time a spot glows blue, David marks it with a numbered yellow stand, sets a measuring L-angle beside it and DiNozzo photographs it.

Palmer leads them out of the room, sweeps the area to the door. In addition to the visible blood drop upon the cover where the glasses had lain, a drop of blood appears on the carpet beside the bed and a single dot of blood, almost too small to be detected with just the eye, glows on the carpet near the door.

Gibbs takes the number stands from Ziva and directs the others to remain. He follows Palmer and DiNozzo as they work the trail down the hall. On the uncarpeted, light colored steps there is little need for Luminal. They back down carefully, keeping to their far right, and find a small drop of blood six steps down, small enough to be missed earlier, another smaller one on the tenth step down, a third at the base of the stairs, this last little more than a dot.

Their most thorough search fails to turn up another spot anywhere on the first floor. "The cut was too small," Gibbs concludes.

"We're lucky we got that much, I guess," DiNozzo says. He can't bring himself to say it would be better had the Priest been more seriously wounded.

x

"Who would want to do this?" Gibbs muses, now that he's far from Donaldson or McGee.

"She really is a beautiful woman, boss," DiNozzo points out, not particularly happy to do so. It brings to the case an aspect distasteful enough when the victim is a stranger; more abhorrent when she's a friend.

x

"All right, two ways out of here; find out which way they went."

When he turns, he sees Donaldson come down the stairs, careful of footprints but clearly anxious to be present for as much of the investigation as possible. He joins Gibbs on a search through the three rooms; they wind up in the kitchen where Gibbs points to a door between kitchen and hallway that opens under the stairs. "What's in here?"

"Stairs to the Shelter apartment, Sunday school room and storage."

"Shelter apartment?"

"It was built about thirty years ago, not long after the church was bought from the Roman Archdiocese. If someone loses their home; fire or whatever, they can stay until other arrangements can be made."

"Anyone using it now?"

"No, the last ones to use it were Harry and Emma Dumas, during Charlie Morley's trial." That had been before Christmas. He pushes open the door and flips the light switch on before Gibbs can stop him.

It's too late now.

"Stay here!" Gibbs commands, aggravated. Unlikely though it is, if they were wrong and their quarry _hadn't_ left the building, their chance to catch him off guard is gone. "DiNozzo, Palmer," he draws his gun and leads the armed agents down the steps.

x

The stairs descend into a living room on the right, kitchen back to the left under the other kitchen. There's a table with two chairs in the kitchen, a convertible sofa in the living room as part of an unimpressive set of mismatched furniture. The entire apartment is as neat as a 'House and Gardens' spread, it evidently had been put in order following the Morley trial and undisturbed since then.

There's a door to the rear, which opens to a hall that turns right to skirt two sides of the Sunday School room and opens into others on the left. The school room is the only one not packed with storage. Half a dozen chair-desks face a blackboard, and three bookcases line the cinderblock walls. Ten heavy, ceiling to floor drapes reminiscent of medieval arrases cover most of the walls. They depict various Biblical events and could easily date from when the church had been built. Between two of the tall colorful arrases on the right is a door which opens to a small bathroom.

The entire level encompasses the area of the Rectory and outer offices. It's unlikely anyone came down here. Access is obtained only by the stairs between the Secretary's office and the crowded Hamilton Hall or immediately next to a kitchen being used by three people.

A rapid check of the storerooms reveals there is no place to hide a kidnap victim – or her body.

x

They ascend the stairs beside the schoolroom door toward the Secretary's office, cross the hall and reenter the Rectory. There they find McGee speaking with Donaldson in the corridor between one staircase and the next. Ziva is evidently still upstairs. "I'm shutting everything down until we know how she was taken," Gibbs announces, his tone allowing no debate. "Everyone out while our Forensics team sweeps the area."

Donaldson is not happy but has no argument, instead tells him that: "the Hall has been in use for hours, I said Morning Prayer in the Church."

"When we leave, you come with us. I need everything you know about her. The Secretary can stay in her office; I'll have an agent come in who'll monitor her movements until she can get the place shut down.

"McGee, when you get the computer and that PDA thingy, take the Secretary's files too. Focus on everyone who was here last night; track them back to the day they were _born_ if you have to."


	4. Blind

Chapter Four  
Blind

"All right," Jennifer Shepherd says when Gibbs and Rev. George Donaldson seat themselves before her desk, "give it to me." The news of her friend's and NCIS' Chaplain's abduction had been bad enough, she expects the details to be much worse.

"About two o'clock this morning McGee dropped Mother O'Mallory off at the parking lot entrance to the Rectory. Everyone else had left the New Year's party in Hamilton Hall and Father Donaldson," he gives a nod to the priest on his right, "had already gone to bed. O'Mallory made it to her room and was probably undressing when she was attacked. The only visible damage is to her bed. Her shoes, dress, bra and glasses were left behind.

"The only way out is down the stairs, then either through the hall door next to the kitchen that leads to the offices, garden or Hamilton Hall or out the back door from the Rectory's living room and foyer through the parking lot. Both doors were locked this morning but the back door locks automatically. The security chain wasn't on. Father Donaldson unlocked the hall door connecting the Rectory to the Church this morning. The hall leads to the vesting areas, Sacristy and offices. The lot door remained locked until the Forensics team arrived. We checked the stairs, there's no sign anyone used them either barefoot or in nylons in the hours before dawn."

Donaldson listens to this bald summary, trying to hide his own feelings. He can't believe the man can dispassionately report such outrageous details. 'How could I sleep through this? God, I'm supposed to be the one looking out for her, not these people!'

"How far has your investigation proceeded?" Shepherd asks, her director's tone belying her own feelings.

"David and DiNozzo will hunt down the three parishioners who were on kitchen detail, McGee's running background checks on them and Palmer is checking the other Church staff. If they all come up clean then we concentrate on anyone who had access to the Church for whatever reason. The Padre will also provide us with a list of anyone who didn't like O'Mallory, for whatever reason."

Shepherd can see in the priest's eyes how detestable this is, that anyone in his flock could be imagined to do such a thing. She can imagine how much he'll hate preparing the list. She shakes her head. "Too little. I want Kelman's team on that. Call Higgins, have his team canvas the area around the Church, see if anyone saw anything. If Lamb's team isn't making progress on the Taylor case, move them over for a few days."

"Thank you," Donaldson says, wishing he could spearhead all those teams himself. He hates sitting here while Siobhan...

"We take care of our own, Father." She turns back to Gibbs, "Anyone not working a Level One or Two priority, pull them and make your assignments. I want Washington blanketed. I'll call the other Directors, get their help."

With the combined efforts of the FBI, CIA, ATF, Metro PD and so forth, the hunt will be comprehensive.

xx

Tim McGee sits at his desk, trying to hold anxiety at bay so he can concentrate on the histories of the three men who'd prepared yesterday's party food. But a storm rages through his mind. This shouldn't be happening, but now he should be out there, not sitting at a desk! 'I have to find her. I have to _find _her! And when I get that son of a bitch that hurt her I'll–'

He'd leap out of his seat if not restrained from behind by a pair of white-sleeved arms clamped about his neck. "McGee! I just heard!" Abby's frantic voice cries into his ear.

He turns on her; his barely contained, frantic fears erupt, making him louder than he'd intended. "Give me a heart attack, why don't you!"

"I'm _sorry_! It's just that–"

He raises his hands up to halt her apology, embarrassed by how he'd snapped. "No, I'm sorry, Abby, I didn't mean to yell at you." He'd almost done worse than snap at her, his anger had made lashing out a very near thing.

"No, you have good reason, I deserve it. God, you must be frantic!" She snatches from the top of the cubical a large red and white plastic cup and slaps down before him. "Drink! You've gotta be 'Pow!'-ered up!"

He's never known her to surrender her drink to anyone, but the last thing he needs is an explosion of caffeine. He has all he can do to keep from leading a wild charge, being driven madder that he has nowhere to go. "Abs, you're freaking out faster than I am."

"And we don't need it," Gibbs declares as he enters the bullpen with Donaldson and the rest of the team. "What've you got, Abby?"

"Err, nothing, well, I _had _'Caf-Pow!'. I came up to help McGee."

"You can do that better in your lab, can't you?" He looks at her grimly; then his face softens. Abby's concern for others is legendary, but he needs her back on the job.

She doesn't answer, just nods glumly and leaves as quickly as she'd arrived. Gibbs turns to McGee.

"What've _you_ got?"

'The need to tear things apart!' but he wisely keeps it to himself. "I've gone through two of the kitchen staff, so far the worst thing is Paul Rigeman has three outstanding speeding tickets."

"Was there ever a time when all three were out of the kitchen?" Gibbs asks Donaldson.

"They served the refreshments too." He keeps reminding himself they need details. He wants progress. Looking at the near frantic man seated before him, he has to wonder which of them is more distressed.

Gibbs restrains his answer, hating it. An unknown number of times the area was unattended for unknown durations. This track is useless. "Can you think of _anyone_ who didn't like her?"

"Not everyone did," Donaldson hates to admit it, does so very reluctantly. It's not a pleasant thing to say, less so to think about and doing so in front of a man Donaldson knows loves Siobhan is even more hateful. "There are over 900 souls in our parish. Aside from those who either left or stayed to gripe when we hired a woman as Curate, you simply _can't _be liked by everybody, no one can." He doesn't like having to justify or make excuses. Those people who complain don't know her as he does, most have never tried.

"As Curate and heading our Outreach program, her job brings her into contact, in one way or another, with as many people as possible."

"What ways are those?" Gibbs asks.

"Whether by phone, email or in person. A Curate is like a First Officer, anything I can't do she does." He knows this is the simplest way to interpret it; anything to get them out _looking _for her! "That's in addition to officiating at Services, doing Sick Calls, hearing Confession - but I can't imagine anyone doing this."

"Hearing Confession." Gibbs' tone drives home Donaldson's excessive hope. It was because of that intimate Sacrament that NCIS had come to know her, when a murderer had used that means of spiritual reconciliation for sadistic torture.

x

"Nobody ever threatened her?" DiNozzo asks from his desk. He doesn't want to belabor the point, knowing the priest would prefer to believe the best of everyone under his care. It can't be easy to have a cherished sacrament perverted, nor to admit he'd trusted the monster who did it.

"No."

"Would she tell you if someone did?" Gibbs presses.

That brings Donaldson to a halt. He considers their many conversations, what he knows of how she thinks, what she would or wouldn't share. "Not unless she believed it was serious," he decides.

"Did she keep a diary?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know." 'Now I have to think of privacy! I never even imagined asking!'

McGee shrugs, clearly angry at not knowing and not trying to hide it. "Agents at the church are already searching her room and desk. If she does keep one, they'll find it."

"What about if it is on her computer?" Ziva asks.

"Then _I'll _find it!"

He bites back the fire, but it has a bitter taste and won't go down. He knows emotion isn't going to help, it'll only hurt, but he can't help himself.

The only thing that helps him stay focused, at least on the outside, is the rule book. Everyone knows, none more bitterly than he, that he's supposed to be off this case. This rule exists for a reason, already he's had to bite himself back a dozen times – he'd nearly bitten Abby's head off.

'The only reason Gibbs hasn't bounced me is that I know Shav and the people around her far better than anyone else does.'

But he has that one strike and Gibbs will - 'Do it and I'll–!'

"McGee!"

"Uh, boss?"

"The _computer_?"

McGee almost bites himself for his inattention. The laptop is sitting on the corner of his desk, the hard drive already being downloaded into his own high-density drive. "I'm mirroring the system, there's over 15 gigs."

x

"I keep asking myself who'd want to hurt her," Donaldson says, feeling helpless and angry and not caring that he's interrupting, "and I keep coming up empty."

Gibbs restrains himself from snapping 'someone did!' "Work with Palmer," he indicates the Asian woman seated beyond McGee's desk. She tries to give the priest an encouraging smile. "I want the names of everyone who even looked at her funny. McGee, BOLO." He raises his voice loud enough to fill the room. "_Listen up_, we've got a kidnapping and she's one of our own!"

The Operations center goes silent.

x

"After she was dropped off at the Rectory, Chaplain O'Mallory was kidnapped. I want all the pictures everyone took last night downloaded from your photo thingies onto McGee's computer." He turns back to Tim. "Best photos, full face and body. LEOs, TV, Radio - hell, everything from ABC to XYZ. Someone has to have seen _something_!"

"On it."

"Palmer–"

"Abby has all the fingerprints we collected, including the lock on the gate," Michelle tells him. "I'm still running the staff. If you consider only paid positions to be 'staff', there are eight potential suspects, but if you include volunteers with access that includes elected Vestry, Choir, Acolytes above the age of fourteen; Eucharistic Ministers and Altar Guild as 'staff', the number jumps to forty three." She catches the priest's expression. "I'm _sorry_, we have to consider everyone."

No one says it, but everyone has the same thought: to background forty three people will take more hours than they have. In a kidnapping, the odds increase steadily over the first 48 hours to approach a hopeless challenge. Time is definitely their enemy.

"Work with Father Donaldson to knock that number down."

"I can tell you now," the priest assures her, "you've no need to include the women, Acolytes or Ministers." He's amazed she had.

"With respect, Father, we have no proof a woman _couldn't_ have done it."

He doesn't want to admit, to acknowledge, even this. He's known all these people for years, worked with many of them daily, had never had a thought not to trust any of them implicitly.

There's also a bitter measure of guilt. 'I was right next door, in the very next room! I slept though everything that happened to her! If she's dead–'

He shoves the thought aside. It's not helping.

"All right," he tells the woman, stepping up to her desk, "but I can tell you right off that your count is off. We _had_ eight paid positions, but we're not filling Charlie Morley's position until the Spring, so we only have seven." The Asian woman shakes her head, which really annoys him. "We have an Organist, Sexton, Secretary and Treasurer, Nutrition Program Director, Assistant and Cook, that's–"

x

His stop is so abrupt Gibbs turns. The look on Donaldson's face is as sharp as if Palmer had slapped him.

"I'm _sorry_!" Michelle exclaims, "I _had_ –"

"In an investigation," Gibbs cuts in, "_everyone _is considered to be a potential suspect until they're eliminated."

"I understand," the priest says, his tone tells them he does not, but that he's trying very hard to be 'understanding'.

"Even Special Agent McGee is a suspect," Palmer announces.

This brings McGee's head up and he is halfway out of his chair before Gibbs' raised hand stops him.

Unfortunately, the young woman can't be stopped so easily. "You testified you were the last one to see her, and as an Agent trained in covert tactics–"

"Even _I_ could be a suspect," Gibbs cuts off this outrageous line, trying to rein in the woman before the angry agent does - hopefully without resorting to head slaps in front of their guest. Emotions are tearing at too many of them. "I wasn't happy when she was hired here, and it took a while to clear the air between us."

"Actually, sir, I mean Special Agent Gibbs, you were–"

"_That's enough, Lee_! Work with Donaldson on that list!"

"Yes, sir," she says, finally subdued and not daring to correct him.

x

Gibbs forces his own anger down, never an easy thing, and tries to direct the subject into a constructive direction, "Father, her glasses were left behind; how is she without them?"

Donaldson shakes his head. "Siobhan is legally blind."

That definition covers a wide range, from an established legal minimum up, or rather, down. But Gibbs has known the woman to function without apparent difficulty. "_How _blind?"

"Very, for as long as I've known her. I don't know the numbers, I think they say 20/200 is legally blind; but from what I understand she's far worse."

"Boss, I think I can answer that," McGee says, typing quickly. Gibbs has seen he is partway finished with the BOLO, but what's on the screen is something else.

"What?"

"A few months ago I tried to get an idea of just how bad her eyes were. She's worn glasses for as long as I've known her but her vision wasn't as bad as it is now. I shot some footage here in the bullpen and asked her to manipulate it to what _she'd_ see." He turns to the plasma screen between his and DiNozzo's desk; a final strike of the Enter key and the screen brightens. "The left is footage from the elevator into the bullpen; the right is the adjusted image."

Starting from the point indicated, the matching image beside the view from a handheld camera is an incomprehensible blur. The cloud is orange tinged with an increasing bright white on the right which the left image shows to be the large window at midday. As the image turns left into the bullpen the lightness moves off to the right. Tony, in a dark shirt, is an indistinct blob. A dizzying turn about shows Ziva, seated at her desk a little closer to the camera, as a haze of green. Her shirt blends with her cubical wall, this under a blob of flesh tones topped with a smudge of black, all surrounded by gunmetal grey fog of the cubicle's wall and shelves. Gibbs, who works at his computer, is a tan and white blotch of his suit jacket and a hint of flesh-tone topped with a fuzzy silvered smear.

"That's enough." When the picture blacks out, Gibbs isn't sure who he's more frustrated with. His own vision is not the best, particularly when he has to read fine print, but: "Lasik, operations, why would _anyone_ put up with _that_? Why doesn't she have it corrected?"

"She won't." Donaldson's tone is too definite.

"What?"

"Please understand, Siobhan is a … complicated individual. She firmly believes that if God wanted her to have perfect vision she would have it; that to change what she is is to somehow circumvent God's will."

Gibbs turns to McGee, annoyed to see the man's nod of confirmation. To him this is garbage, but he manages not to say so aloud.

x

"Plus there's more," Donaldson continues. "Siobhan uses her vision as an asset."

"How can anyone use _that_ as an asset?"

"She'll remove her glasses to focus on her thoughts, sometimes to buy time in considering an important issue." Gibbs is well aware of that trick. "And for those of us who know her well, it's a useful way of reading her."

"How?"

Donaldson isn't happy to reveal this and takes in the entire team. "Keep this to yourselves, no one needs to know." He doesn't continue until he sees their agreement. "I once told her that she can't tell a lie, that she doesn't have the knack for it; that if she tried to her tongue would fall out of her mouth. That wasn't _strictly_ accurate. The fact is that Siobhan is a very poor liar; she simply cannot look you in the face and lie to you. Never could. But there are times in life, no matter how honest someone is, when it is a lesser sin to give … gentle deception where brutal hurt is the alternative. Understand, we try to be truthful in all things, but–"

"Your _point_!"

"Yes, well, those of us who know her well know she can't do that. She simply cannot look you in the eyes and lie to you, so she developed this defense. If she takes off her glasses for a time, she's stalling, buying time to think. But if she removes them and speaks to you without them, she's lying."

Gibbs glances at the tight lipped McGee, who reluctantly nods.

"So you're telling me that if she _were_ to have a chance to escape, she wouldn't know it and couldn't do it."

There is no answer to this.

x

"Who knows how bad her eyes are?"

"It's nothing you could keep secret. You've seen her glasses. In the old days you'd have to wear these bulky 'coke bottle' types, but even today there's only so much you can do. Not everyone knows how _bad _her vision is, but anyone could see that taking her glasses would limit her in some way, even if they weren't sure by how much."

"Who does know?"

"She made no particular secret of it, no more than her reason for not going for corrective surgery, though I've heard many ask her."

Gibbs abandons this line; it's only increasing, not decreasing, the number of potential suspects. "Ziva, call Lollobrigida at the newspaper, the number's in my file. Give her everything, this is no time to be stingy." He has an understanding with the reporter, and knows she'll jump at the chance to be the first one to break the full story. "McGee, you finished with that BOLO?"

"Done and gone."

"You're with me. Palmer, you and the Padre get started on that list, I want it in twenty minutes; then we break it down and make the rounds. Tony, you and Ziva hit the streets, interview those three cooks." He turns and walks out of the bullpen.

x

They're about thirty feet past the elevator, near the door to the Statistical Analysis department when Gibbs stops and turns on the younger agent. "Regs say you're _off _this case, you're too tied to her." He doesn't give the man a chance to protest.

"But I need your knowledge of her, that church and those people. I also know that, like with your sister, you'd work this case whether you were here or home." McGee doesn't press his luck by confirming this. "I'm giving you the same warning I did then. You're here, but you get _one _strike. Not three, _one_. We clear?"

"We're clear."

"Okay." He can only hope he's not making a mistake. "Let's get back to work."

But they get no further than the elevator before McGee stops. "Boss?"

Gibbs had kept going, but turns. "What?"

McGee presses the button and a few moments later the door opens and he gets in, followed by the impatient supervisor. As soon as the doors close, McGee flips the emergency stop switch and the main lights go off, the blue backup lights come on.

This is an unexpected reversal of roles, but Gibbs' attention is also on the clock. "_What_?"

"Boss, what I have to say is no one else's business." It's obvious to Gibbs, who's heard that phrase too often today, that McGee won't say another word until he gets his agreement. "Last night, when I dropped her off …" when he can say it, his voice is hushed with tightly contained emotion, "she said 'yes'."

x

Having the answer, Gibbs doesn't have to ask the question. The silence is heavy while he frames his own answer. "McGee, you know us, you know what we do and how hard we'll work. Beyond that … I can't make any promises."


	5. Captive

Chapter Five  
Captive

Siobhan O'Mallory opens her eyes to diffuse light and a blurred cloud of light beige/pink, the color of flesh. Only a nimbus of brighter light before her, above her as she lies on her back, hints at the source. 'My God, what happened?' The ground beneath her is hard and flat, and as she reaches out she finds it rough and cold, cold that has seeped through her body, chilling her. A floor. Cement? Feels rough like cement.

'Where am I? What _happened_?' Her heart pounds, breath comes in sharp gasps. She reaches about her as far as she can with both hands, feels nothing but the cold, rough surface. 'My glasses. Where are my _glasses_?' She clutches her chest, feels only her pounding heart. 'Oh God, my _clothes_!'

Frantic, she remembers what happened to her. The chill that floods her is only partially from the coolness of the room. She remembers Timmy, the snow, his _proposal_! 'He asked me to _marry _him!'

She remembers feeling utterly happy when she'd entered her bedroom. She'd started to undress, removed her dress, undid her bra–

Then terror and pain, smothering and more pain. The chill that's pervaded her from the cement makes it hard to feel anything distinctly. She touches her chest again, but wants to deny what she feels.

Cautiously she brings her hand down along her stomach, unable to feel her half-slip, her _panties _- then further past her hip and along one leg. As far down as she can reach is only unprotected, bare flesh.

Tracing her hand up along her legs, higher and higher, she makes a truly horrifying discovery: that which she would keep neatly trimmed is gone!

"Oh my _God_," she whispers, feeling a flood of cold terror. '_Who_?'

This is the worst violation!

A moment later she realizes it is not the worst. It's likely only the beginning!

x

Her heart pounds the drumbeat of terror. Searching with both hands for her clothes within reach does no good; running her hands along the floor yields nothing but the roughness of cold cement. 'Where are my _clothes_?' She reaches down her body, finds nothing! 'Did he...?' Fear leaps to near panic. 'If he removed–'

'God! Jesus, please!' She feels her body, tries to tell how she feels inside. The smoothness is a horrible enough violation but was she _raped_? 'I can't tell! Oh God, _I can't tell_!'

She'd always imagined she would be able to tell, but she's too scared to think clearly. Pain at the side of her right eye finally registers over her distress. She touches the spot and winces when she finds a small cut there. A short tacky trail of dried blood ascends forward to her forehead. She doesn't have to work too hard to guess why it'd gone up.

The left side of her left breast hurts too, and when she touches the small spot the pain jumps to a sting. Carefully feeling the tackiness of blood at the small spot, she has no doubt of what happened. She's been given some injection. 'What sick person uses a needle in a woman's _breast_?'

x

The answer presents itself immediately: a sadist who cares nothing for her. She has no idea how long she's been unconscious, long enough to be violated so intimately already! Who shaves a woman's–?

Shame and humiliation vie with anger but are overwhelmed by fear. What's been done to her is horrible, but she fears far worse is to come.

She's thirsty. She had little at the party - how long ago? She has the feeling, however, that her thirst will get far worse - and that it's the least of her problems.

Determined not to give in to the fear, she sits up, feeling slightly lightheaded, whether from the pounding fear or whatever drug was used on her she isn't sure.

The featureless haze doesn't change, though the brighter area is now behind her. 'What's happening?' She brings her shaking hands before her face, gasping for breath, fear threatening to rip her mind from her. The lightness of her hands - two indistinct ovals nearly invisible in the cloud - tells her they reflect whatever the light source is. She can't tell how far away it is, but the closer it would be, the more shadowed her hands would be and moving them changes nothing. Moving her hands toward the floor makes them vanish into the haze; she can't even see her body. The legs she _knows _are stretched out before her are invisible, absorbed into the matching floor. Her hands and arms, her whole body, blend into the colored haze.

'My God, where _am _I? What is this?'

x

Terror attacks her mind; her pounding heart bangs in her ears like a drum. She's trembling, her breaths ragged gasps. But as she crosses herself, appealing for courage to fight the flood of fear that would drown her, a thought slips through her frantic mind, a reminder: 'For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.'

'Can't be afraid! Can't be _afraid_! Think! Have to _think_! Did he rape me? No! Got to think! Have to think! Have to – have to get my head.'

x

She tries to stand up, it's hard; whatever he used is still with her. She has to try several times before she can work her way to her feet, to plant them on the cool cement and fight for stability, for balance. She's dizzy. She has to wait until she can be sure she can walk without falling.

Walk where? She can't get her bearings, tries not to think of how scared she is. The room is silent - utterly silent. But she's heard her panting breath, her frightened whispers - or has she? She snaps her fingers; satisfied then that, whatever is wrong, she can still hear. But there's nothing to hear.

'God, please, help me to think!' She forces herself to take a deep breath, hold it, fights her pounding heart and her fear. She runs her hands down her sides, her hips, her thighs. 'All right, I'm naked. Did he _ra_ – No! _L__ater_! Think! He took my glasses, my clothes, what else?'

She _knows _what else he took, a horrible violation. She touches herself, appalled by the sensitivity. Her skin is too sensitive, unprotected flesh not touched for years suddenly laid vulnerable.

Madonna's lyrics, 'like a virgin, touched for the very first time', flash through her mind but bring only shame. She knows why he did this; his convenience and her humiliation. She feels her face grow hot with the thought of how she'd lain unconscious while he'd done this - this horrible violation.

She doesn't _think _she's been raped, but she's too scared to be sure even of this. She tries to push these things from her mind, knowing that if she can't escape then her humiliations have barely begun.

She tries to fight the fear, crosses herself, tries to force herself to think. 'Jesus, please help me. Have mercy Lord, forgive me my sins and grant me the courage to get through this!'

But courage is slow to come; she thinks she'd settle for just not trembling so badly. Her breath is shuddering gasps, her hands shake and she wraps her arms about herself, hands imprisoned under her arms. She tries to regain control, to fight the fear.

She prays, not caring what, not choosing one over another, just prays; focusing her mind upon the prayers until gradually she can fight down the terror. She doesn't think of how long it takes or what she'll pray, just concentrates on the prayers until she stops trembling.

x

Finally she feels, if not under control, at least not on the verge of screaming in blind panic. Blind; that's bad enough. She's blind in a lighted, flesh colored fog. But though she's still afraid, still blind, it's not the mind-numbing terror that had consumed her. 'Thank you, Father. Please be with me, guide me.'

x

She begins to inspect her body carefully, finds nothing beyond the sore point in her left breast. She decides this _won't _be important to her. No matter what he did to her, she decides it won't be important.

'Whatever it was, it's worn or wearing off. Fine. Done. Move on. I can stand.' She takes a careful step, another, into the flesh-tone fog. 'I can walk, I don't think I'll fall. Now - can I _escape_?'

She looks about but can see nothing, just a beige/pink blur. Everything is silent. Strain though she does, she can hear nothing. She already knows nothing's wrong with her hearing, but is anyplace truly, totally silent? She resolves to keep trying, listening for the slightest sound.

Wherever she looks the blur is the same featureless flesh color. Her extended hand vanishes into it.

No, not _exactly_ featureless. There's something there, to her right, something different about an area. The left and right sides aren't perfectly the same. There's a vertical distinction to the shading.

x

A new burst of fear assails her, causes her heart to race, her breath reduced to fragmented gasps. She hugs herself, tries to push it back. Forcing herself to let go, she blesses herself, focuses on the cross, on her belief, her faith that God will help her.

'I won't be afraid. I _won't_! God, you're with me. I won't let fear rule me, not when you're beside me. I have to keep my head.' She tries to regain control of her breath, her pounding heart, tries to slow them again. It takes a long time but she starts to manage it. 'All right, I can't see. I should see. Why can't I see anything?'

She crosses herself again, appeals for courage as much as help. She steps forward carefully on bare feet, a little less dizzy, and cautiously tests every step on the cold cement, unable to see any obstacles in her path. It's hard to walk, to be sure of her balance. She must go slowly, until whatever it was he put into her is out of her system - even if she could see an inch in front of her.

The cement is cold but she's not uncomfortably so. There is heat, so it's coming from somewhere. If there's heat, maybe not everyone around her means her harm. Maybe her captors have some mercy. Maybe she can appeal to it.

Nine cautious steps bring her to the vertical distinction, which is darkened now from bottom to top by a dim smudge that has risen before her. Her hands touch one wall, then another beside her. It's a corner. The walls are cool, and they feel as unfinished as the floor.

'I can't even see my hand on the wall. The wall matches my hand! _Why_?' She clenches her eyes closed, tries to focus her thoughts, to shove aside her fear. 'He did it for _me_! He knows me, knows I can't see anything! He made this room for _me_!'

x

A blast of terror shatters her thoughts. She stands gasping, trembling as the depth of the scheme assails her. "_No_!" She gasps, angry at the fear. She clenches her fists, her nails dig into her palms and the pain distracts her, forces her to think of something besides fright. "I won't be afraid!" she commands herself aloud. "I won't be _afraid_! Timmy taught me I have to keep my head. He says fear makes you miss what's important. _I won't be afraid_!"

The determined commands help break through the fear, at least enough to allow her to think. 'I'm in a room,' she continues silently, 'a cement room. There's a light behind me, that's my shadow in the corner. There has to be a _door_.'

For now she feels each featureless wall, hits it with her hand. It's cement, just like the floor.

She's very cool, but not really cold, only a little uncomfortable. 'Naked will do that,' she chides herself, but she isn't cold. 'It's January but I'm not freezing, so there's heat coming from somewhere. Where?'

Left or right hardly makes a difference so she chooses right. She steps very carefully, heel to toe, and examines every inch of the wall she can feel, as high up as she can reach and down to the cement floor. Her shadow darkens the wall as she moves, she keeps count of her steps and slowly she brings her hands along the wall. The darkness of the smudge beside her tells her that it's a bulb above her and it is unfiltered. It's not a skylight, the source isn't that diffuse. Experience tells her it's a bulb, and that it's bare, as bare as she is.

'No, I'm naked. _Ok__ay_! Stop _thinking _about it!' She tries to push thoughts of clothes where she prays she can push her fear. Her heart is pounding and she stops again, hands trembling, tries to get control of her fear. 'Father, please help me not to be afraid! I can get out of this if I'm not _afraid_!'

She tries to focus on anything but the fear. 'What did Timmy say? That the first duty of any prisoner is to escape, and doing this means learn everything. Okay, what is 'everything'?'

x

She continues to count the steps, heel to bare toe, as she explores the wall. Keeping her thoughts focused helps keep the fear under control. She's still scared, but it doesn't rule her. 'Thank God, whatever he put in me, I'm not falling down. I can walk, I can think. Now all I have to do is escape.'

She almost laughs, bites it back. There's nothing 'all' about it. Without glasses, she couldn't find her way home on a safe street five blocks from the church and whoever took her knows this. He's put her in a prison where she's not just disabled, she's completely blind.

'The sighted blind. Well, I've had my entire life to face this; now it's time. Let's see if I've learned anything.'

x

Standing perfectly still, she tries to get a sense of her surroundings. She can't see, but she can feel and she can hear, smell.

The air is not perfectly still. Nude, she can feel the slight movement of air on her flesh. There is a very gentle but definite breeze, air circulating. She realizes that, if she were dressed, she'd probably not be aware of it.

'Whoever thought I'd be grateful to be naked?' But she doesn't feel grateful, she's trapped and she's scared. 'But if air is coming in, where's it coming from? Can I use it to escape? If I scream for help, will anyone hear me?'

The room is quiet, very quiet, but standing still and listening intently, she can hear it's not as quiet as she'd thought. Her ears have 'adjusted' to the quiet; now she can hear that it's not perfectly silent. 'Machine? No, air vent. Up. Right.' The more intently she listens, the more certain she becomes. There's an air vent high to her right, she's sure of it.

'What else? Anything else?' Now that she's aware of the very quiet circulation, she can hear it distinctly.

The room is so quiet the silence seems to press into her ears, but now that she's aware, the silence is not quite total.

x

She continues to measure off the distance until she touches the next wall, warned by the diffuse distinction of the intersection. Thirty one bare feet; she'll work out what that means later. She turns right, puts her heel to the cement wall and starts again, finds nothing at all under her questing hands. She moves slowly, tries not to miss an inch of cement, sometimes she runs her hands over the same spot from different angles before deciding she'd felt nothing useful.

She has no idea how long this takes and tells herself she doesn't care. She only wants to keep the fear under control. As she takes one careful step after another she can feel the heat changing on her body. The room is not as cold as she'd expect, but still she can feel warmer as she moves forward, carefully probing every inch of the cement wall with her open hands. In twenty eight steps she learns the reason for the increasing warmth.

Just before the corner is a pipe. She can't see it but it's there. She reaches for it, carefully approaches with her hands from either side until she has to stop. She guesses it's about four inches wide and hot enough to warm the room. She touches the hot metal very carefully - snatches her hand back, her fingertip burned. The invisible pipe is scorching, but it's the first good thing she's found in this prison.

She turns right and begins again, her faith – and reason – helping her to fight down the fear. The search has given her something to think about. She's still afraid, but panic is less a threat. 'Jesus will not abandon me,' she reminds herself when fear, thought of again, wells up in her. 'I have to keep going.' And in thirteen steps she finds the door.

x

She can't see it and this time her vision is not at fault. The door is nearly flush with the wall but the smooth feel of the paint gives it away instantly. It's painted to match the wall; had she relied only on her eyes she'd never have found it. Even now, her indistinguishable hand flat on the smooth door, she can't see it.

As cautious as ever, she tests the size and surface. It's smooth and little different than a regular door. Pounding on it reveals it to be thick wood and her hardest open hand strike barely rattles it. As hard as she might shove and pull it doesn't budge. She turns slightly and kicks it, doesn't hear it move at all. While it's not wedged into the frame, it's certainly thick and heavy. She also knows she's alerted her captor that she's awake. She doesn't care.

x

Tracing the door's surface, she finds on the right side, where a knob should be, four large screw-heads set in a rectangular pattern. Their smoothness against the wood reveals they're the inner sides of the screws. More careful probing reveals them to be one-way, the reverse tabs filed down, not that she has anything to use on them. In the center of the panel is a keyhole, a thin, modern one rather than the large hole designed to admit an antique key.

Another minute's search reveals nothing more about the door and she decides to continue her search. She takes another heel to toe step, as carefully searches the wall, then another and another, inches forward again and her bare toe touches something.

She stops instantly, crouches down and probes carefully. There's a diffuse white haze before her that she guesses could be over five feet long and extends away from the wall and to her right. The object laying flat upon the floor under her fingers is smooth, rounded but not round, more cylindrical, light and curved, tapering. She comes down on one knee to examine it. As she explores it, her fingers touch another piece, separate from the other, then others, all curved. She continues, searching along one to a tapered end; then she finds one that's shaped differently, flat and smooth.

There's a powdery feel to everything she touches. The larger objects are large but light, easy to move, and all seem to come in various shapes and sizes. Some of them are lined up in –. She snatches her hands away. 'Oh my GOD!'

x

The horrific thought steals her breath, fear blasts all her control. Her heart slams in her chest, racing in her terror. She's shaking so violently she can't think; she never wants to touch those things again!

It takes a long time to fight this fear. Only gradually can she stop trembling. She has to be sure of what she thinks. In the silence, only her pounding heart and shuddering breath disturbs the tomblike chamber.

She doesn't want to touch this but, perversely, she's unable to _not_ touch it. Believing she knows what she's found, she reaches to her left, toward the wall, encounters one similar shape after another laying flat on the floor. Then she passes the last one and then there is a flattened, smooth surface under her left hand.

Heart pounding, her breath fast gasps, she continues reaching up along the off-white blur, wants to deny that she'll make the discovery she knows she will. Her heart slams in her chest, her head swims until she's sure she'll faint.

When her hand touches another surface she uses both hands to explore the familiar shape, an articulated bone topped by a row of teeth that meet others, and then upward to an indentation, further to two openings side by side, then to a rounded surface.

x

She snatches her hands back, trembling so hard she can't even grasp her own hands to still them. She can no longer deny to herself she'd been touching ribs that had caved in to the floor when the supporting ligaments had decayed. There's no smell; all she could feel beside bone is what felt like fine powder. She touches her hands, can still feel it. She slaps at her hands, trying to knock it off.

"My God!" she whispers, panting. She wants to run away but can't. She can't see to run. She'd been afraid before, now the terror steals her breath. She can barely hear over the pounding of her heart. "Sweet Jesus have mercy! I–"

A strong hand yanks her hair, hauls her to her feet as she screams, the horror that had built echoes in the chamber. She's slammed backward into the cement wall and a fist crashes into her stomach. She doubles over, breath driven from her!

She gags, tries to drag in stolen breath as terror rips her mind from her. The hand twists in her hair and yanks her back up again. She's pounded into the wall so hard her head bounces off it with a sickening thump.

A hard smack to her right cheek, a fist to the left side of her jaw knocks her off her feet. She falls hard on the cement, her back against the wall and lies stunned. She can't find her invisible attacker!

x

A tight hand about her right ankle washes the fugue from her mind. She's yanked hard, dragged along the rough cement. She can't breathe to scream though terror and pain rip through her. Nausea wells up from the punch, she can't fight it back.

The light, a bright diffuse area in the middle of fog, is high above her eyes now. She can barely see an indistinct smudge little different than her bare hands had been earlier. It gets in front of the light and the haze becomes dark. She tastes blood in her mouth from the punch and tries to fight the unknown, unseen shape, but her hardest punches are ineffective.

Hands clutch her knees and yank apart, nearly tear her leg muscles, make her cry out from pain as much as terror. The smudge expands to fill most of her vision. She tries to sit up and is pushed back by a hand clutching her left breast. She tries to pry it loose, the heavy body pins her to the cement.

She strikes blindly at where his head seems to be, hits hard with the heel of her palm, then rakes her nails down hard as Timmy had taught. The weight lifts from her. A blur quickly expands to fill her vision, a fist cracks into her face and slams her head into the cement.

x

For a moment she lies stunned, unable to do more as heavy weight covers her again, pins her down, legs force her legs apart. There's a hand between them, she can feel the weapon being aimed.

Siobhan shrieks as pain stabs her!


	6. Last Rites

Chapter Six  
Last Rites

It always fascinates Gibbs that the more concentration Abby Sciuto must devote to a problem, the louder and more raucous her music becomes. Walking into the Forensics lab, he reaches for the radio beside the door and lowers the volume.

"Gibbs, I need that!" Abby protests into the quiet.

The music is still playing but: "I've shouted enough."

She turns back to her workstation. "So who are you shouting at?"

"No one yet," he says, coming up beside her, "but that won't last." He sets a large red and white container on her table, retaining his own large coffee cup. "What've you got?"

"A reason to shout. Well, maybe not, but it won't improve your mood." She takes a long draw of 'Caf-Pow!' and points to the long table behind her. "I've been having the Forensics staff ship me down things in stages. There's nine rooms in the Rectory, three of which he could have been hiding in, plus closets, the downstairs steps, the works." She crosses to the table, picks up a clear plastic bag.

"I tested the padlock from the gate. There are only a few keys; Father Donaldson, Siobhan, the Sexton, the Secretary Ellen Meyers, the two Church Wardens have them. Excluding Donaldson, Meyers and one of the Wardens since the latter two are women and there's no sign Siobhan walked down the stairs on bare or even nyloned feet, that still leaves two possibilities." She sets down the bag and Gibbs knows he won't like whatever she says next.

"The _problem_ is that the gate is unlocked in the morning and stays open all day but anyone can lock it. There's a gazillion prints on it, overlapping each other. McGee's are there too. I checked with him; he unlocked and then locked it. But his are partially smudged, as are the others. He wasn't wearing gloves while he was driving but someone wearing gloves handled the lock after McGee."

"Someone wearing gloves."

"Uh huh."

"With four inches of snow on the ground."

"Yep."

"You're right."

"How so?"

"I need someone to shout at."

x

He takes a long gulp of his coffee; it doesn't help. "All right, Donaldson says he didn't use his back door so he's not the one who unlocked the gate this morning. That leaves four people."

"I doubt it's one of the Wardens," she counters. "McGee told me once that neither of them works at the Church. They're elected parish officers with weekday jobs. I'd say on a weekday morning you can look at the Sexton or the Secretary, though keeping the sex thing going narrows it down to the Sexton."

"I'm not ruling anyone out yet." Gibbs recalls seeing Ellen Meyers in her office when he'd passed it, but hadn't yet seen the man he'd interviewed during the summer when he'd first investigated a crime at that church. It only takes one oblivious person, however, to smudge up a set of fingerprints. "What else have you got?"

She leads him to the other end of the table. He has the depressing feeling she's going to take him through every piece of collected evidence. "I'm analyzing the comforter that covered her bed for traces but right now I have blood and some of her hairs. If you're right about him covering her mouth so Father Donaldson wouldn't hear, I might get some skin cells off that or anything else he might have touched. I'll call you if I get any bells and whistles."

xxx

When Siobhan forces her eyes open she's laying face down. She comes more fully awake with a start, tensing, expecting an attack. Being unable to see it coming makes it worse.

Pain that had been held off by unconsciousness fills her; she reaches down to her crotch, fights the urge to curl into a fetal ball and fights her wish for blissful oblivion. An instant later panic grips her. She's not sure she's alone, that he isn't beside her ready to hurt her again!

She looks about, searching for her tormentor in the impossible fog, not knowing when he'll hurt her again.

The most intense pain is between her legs but it's accented by much more in her hips, stomach, breasts and face. After he'd finished with her, using her far more viciously than she'd ever imagined in her most horrific nightmares, he'd dragged her to her feet and beat her.

She lays still, afraid to move more than her eyes, afraid he'll hurt her again. But, she reminds herself, she's already moved. He knows she's awake. Is he behind her, about to–?

She couldn't see him or his attacks, could only feel the devastating pain of his brutal assault. She remembers colliding several times with cement walls before falling under a storm of punches, then nothing more.

She hadn't screamed. Screaming, she knows, would only please or incite her rapist, so she'd kept her silence. Now she's no longer being hit but the pain continues.

x

Fear rips at her, the fear of more rape, more beatings, the fear of the invisible assailant. She's trembling and can't stop it. Before she'd just been afraid; now it's real terror. "Oh God," she whispers, "oh God please!" The pain between her legs is horrible, worse than she'd ever imagined.

While she'd so long ago given Tim McGee the 'gift' of herself; a romanticized way of looking at what they'd shared so often; it had never, ever hurt, not even the first time. Now pain stabs at her and she holds back tears behind clenched eyes. She doesn't want to move, doesn't want to think. Memories of years-ago bliss are overwhelmed by pain.

She wants to cry but won't let herself. She doesn't know if the bastard is gone, only that he _wants _her to cry.

He hadn't come in to attack her, she'd have heard him. He'd been there the whole time, watching her, probably following her along the cement floor as she'd searched the walls, found the door, the bones. He'd watched her as she'd prayed, heard her private words, maybe laughed at her.

Then he'd _taken _her.

x

She can still barely believe the brutality of the assault. All she'd ever remembered of Timmy had been joy and passion; this is hatred. This monster, she can't even think of him as a man, had been brutal, wanting only to hurt her. To humiliate her.

Then, when he'd finished and his hateful seed had smeared her deep inside; he'd gotten up, dragged her to her feet by her hair and had begun punching her.

She'd never seen anything, never had a warning. Just his fists, over and over and over again, knocking her about the room, making her slam into cement walls, punching and pounding her until God, in His mercy, took her away.

x

Now she lies here, not sure if she's alone or seconds from another rape! 'No,' she thinks with a flare of anger. 'I'm not going to lie here and _take _it!'

She slowly pushes herself up, turns over until she is sitting, cautious that her pains do not sharpen into the agony of broken bones, but nothing feels that bad. Yet. It's the pain of bare fists and feet she feels, and worse, the more brutal, intimate pain of –

'No! I won't _think _of that. I _won't_!' She wants to cry, to scream, to wail about the unfairness and the brutality but she will not. She will not give her captor the pleasure of seeing her misery.

She looks around, even doing so hurts, but there's nothing to see. Everywhere is the blurred, flesh colored fog. The only thing that stands out is the indistinct nimbus of light above her, but strain as she does she can't even focus on that.

Her cement cell is the perfect trap. Flesh-colored, she can't even see herself, let alone him. Without her glasses, she's as bad as blind.

She blesses herself, focuses her mind on prayers. The violation – since years before her Ordination she's been celibate–

'No! I won't _think _of that! I won't! I _won't_!' Misery cuts her, pain flares in her and almost rips tears from her but she rubs her face hard, fights the misery as she'd fought the rape!

'Jesus! Mary! Virgin - please help!' Drawing her knees up, fighting the pain, she clutches them, holds herself drawn up, hugging herself, trying to ease pain and misery. From the depths of faith, she gradually finds the will to fight. 'I couldn't stop him - but I won't let him _win_. I won't!'

"You _Bastard_!" she whispers. "You didn't come in; you were here all the _time_. But you won't beat me. You raped me but you won't beat me!"

In the blur around her, is he there? 'Is he going to hurt me again?'

Fearful, she tries to draw in tighter, wishing she could just stop shaking.

x

'I've worked with rape survivors,' she thinks, 'told them how what was done to them didn't make them less. This has nothing to do with celibacy - that's a choice and it's will and it's mine! I am not less, I'm _not_!'

"God, I don't ask forgiveness - only your blessing," she whispers, her voice quivering with misery and fear. "Timmy will still be the first and only one for me. _Please_ let me live to get back to him."

x

Gradually she fights the misery down, wipes away her tears and forces more away. "I will not cry," she whispers emphatically, not caring if she's being heard or not. "He wants me to cry and I will ... not ... _cry_!"

She feels her body carefully, cautiously searches everything that hurts. Her face is numb in some spots, maybe that's a blessing for she also finds the tackiness of dried blood. There is blood between her drawn up thighs, and probably more dried fluids she doesn't want to imagine.

Sharp pain guides her to a cut on her right hip. The smoothness of her right breast is marred by the painful indentations of teeth. She finds a similar wound in the pain of her left, surrounding her areola. When rape alone hadn't been enough to make her scream, he'd grown more vicious. She'd bitten her own lips when his teeth had crushed her breasts so she could hold back the screams. Her arms had been held down, she couldn't fight but she wouldn't scream.

And she hadn't allowed her captor to force her to shed a single tear.

x

"Are you here?" She doesn't bother anymore to look for a sign of him. She hadn't even seen more than a hazy shape when he'd been on top of her. "Answer me."

Silence. To Siobhan it means nothing. There's no reason she can think of to paint an entire room in flesh colors except to take advantage of her weakness. This room had been prepared for her; no one else she knows is so vulnerable to it. Staying silent, he could hide within feet of her. "If you want me to scream – or _cry_ – I won't. If you're going to rape me again, I can't stop you _so __just __get it over with_!"

x

There's nothing. Is he gone? Is he feet from her? Watching? Waiting? But as fast as the fear assaults her, she fights against it. It makes her heart race, she fights to slow it. The thought of more rape rips her breath from her; she fights to get it back. She fights tears, fights the terror until slowly, gradually, she wins.

x

The silence is so pervasive she can't even hear breathing, but after a long time she remembers what fear had made her forget. There's another victim here; she fights to forget that she may yet become like that other. Fighting down this added fear, she decides she must seek out her late companion in this prison.

She'd found the skeleton before being dragged from a wall, but the beating after the agonizing rape had disoriented her. First thing is to find a wall, then search.

She uncurls from the protective position that had offered no protection, forces herself to get to her feet. Pain flares over and over, almost stops her. Only her will makes her fight because it's _not _easier to lay still on the ground. She fights the pains, forces herself to get up, to steady herself, to plant her feet and fight to keep from falling down.

Whatever happens to her, she will meet it on her feet, not curled up like a helpless victim!

x

This search is faster, though slowed by pain as her body protests every movement. To walk is agony, far less without as within. The agony between her legs is the worst. She clamps a hand over her mouth to keep from sobbing. She wants to touch herself, to ease the pain, but the thought of touching her shaved, violated flesh actually turns her stomach.

'No! I won't think of it!'

The rape itself is nauseating enough; what he'd done to make it easier for himself will take weeks or months to restore. She blushes at the humiliation, has to fight this shame as much as the others. 'Please, God, don't let Timmy ever see this!'

x

The door is halfway across the second wall and the bones four feet beyond it, a cloud of lighter color. She cautiously kneels down beside it, fighting even more pain and careful not to come down with her bare knees upon a stray bone. The skeleton lies on its back, head close to the wall.

It takes more than a minute to overcome her reluctance, her revulsion, but she works to push these off. This is another innocent victim of this sadist. 'How does Ducky do it?' she wonders.

She's seen him talk to his 'patients' when she'd come in, more than once with admittedly bad timing, to do what she'd thought of as her duty, to offer the final sacrament. She'd never really been invited, taking it upon herself to act in filling a need, having decided that if she waited to be asked, she'd never be asked. She's thankful she's never walked in on his actual working.

She tries to forget the skeleton and focus on the person it had been.

She's known Ducky Mallard to do it, but he has the experience of a lifetime, she doesn't. She can't. She doesn't want it.

She's known death -. No, she's been with the dying in their last days or hours, she's officiated at funerals for deceased people with prepared and preserved bodies - but this is no less a person! Man or woman - Ducky Mallard or Jim Palmer could tell, she can't - this person deserves what she alone can do.

She has a duty, an obligation. And just as Ducky told her he talks to his charges to preserve their dignity, she must do no less now.

But even focusing on these thoughts, it takes a long time to overcome her reluctance, her fear, to place her fingers, her palms upon the smoothness of the skull. It doesn't matter, she reminds herself, whether she wants to or not; her duty, her obligations, have long ago removed her choice.

A blast of fear rips through her. Not only is this a long dead skeleton, soon it could be her.

Oddly enough, she realizes it's that realization that breaks through her fear, through the churning of her stomach. This is - was - _is _a person, no different in life from her and certainly no less.

x

"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord;" she whispers. "He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever believeth in me shall never die."

Focusing allows her to push past her fear, her reluctance, to do this when she really wants to snatch her hands back, to run, to crawl into a corner and vomit! This man or woman deserves no less than everything she can give, whatever she must push back to give it.

x

"Oh God, whose mercies cannot be numbered, accept my prayer on behalf of thy servant, and grant an entrance into the land of life and joy, in the fellowship of thy saints; through Jesus Christ thy Son our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever."

Focused now, it's almost easier for her to push aside - for the moment - that she may one day join this unfortunate victim. "Almighty God, who has knit together thine elect in one communion and fellowship, in the mystical body of thy Son, Christ our Lord–"

x

She hears the click behind her, a heavy bolt fall back, but she continues as the door immediately behind her is pushed in. She would never halt this service in Church, she certainly will not do it for the author of these brutal atrocities.

And since she cannot stop him from doing as he pleases, she will ignore him.

"Grant, we beseech thee, to thy whole Church in paradise and on Earth, thy li–"

"Shut _Up_!" A powerful impact slams into her lower back; the kick in her right kidney sends horrible agony through her, knocks her forward. She barely manages to get her hands out, to stop herself from falling across the bones. It hurts so much she can't even scream. **/**

She tries to push herself back to her knees, anything to keep from being forced forward. A savage blow to the left side of her head knocks her to the ground. She manages to fall directly to her right and miss the skeleton. She lies on her right side and another kick slams into her back. She tries to reach back to ease the pain, to protect herself. "_Bitch_!" his scream fills the room with hate. "You pervert everything!"

Another kick turns her over across the bones, face down upon them. She tries to roll further away, appalled at the desecration even over her own pain. But agony slows her movements and she's kicked again, this time in her right ribs. She's knocked completely over the bones and onto her back.

'God - _please_!' She tries to cover up, but it's useless! She senses him but can't see him, he's beside her. His foot comes down hard on her stomach, doubles her upright - her half-scream dies in a ragged croak as she clutches her stomach. His foot crashes into her side, topples her over, back onto the bones.

"Father," she can only gasp, "have mercy on–" He grabs her hair and drags her from the cement to her feet. She hits him, her fists connect ineffectually. Everything she can see is a confusing fog of light and shadow, in the midst of which a moving blur blends into the flesh toned walls.

"Perverted _Bitch_!" A quick movement of indistinct blob before her and a fist crashes into her face. It knocks her off her feet, her head slams into the cement wall and blackness consumes her.


	7. Who Hates Me This Much?

Chapter Seven  
Who Hates Me This Much?

When Gibbs steps off the elevator his cell phone rings; he answers with his usual brevity.

/DiNozzo, boss, we spoke to one of the kitchen trio, no soup. He says no one came in while they were in the Rectory except Donaldson. We're heading for the second one now./

"How long were they out of the kitchen?"

/Minutes at a time. Too many. How's McFrantic?/

"Chomping for answers. When you get back you'd better have some." He closes the phone as he enters the bullpen, passing McGee. "What've you got, Palmer?"

"Alerts have gone out to all radio stations, and television and cable companies have a picture from last night. While you were out, the first of them aired on CBS."

"McGee, anything on her cell phone? Did she bring anything with her?"

He shakes his head, not about to say that was the first thing he'd checked. Her phone had been on her night table, it was as useless as the GPS in her car.

He checks his watch: 2:22. Shav has been missing for twelve hours.

xxx

When Siobhan gradually awakens she sees and feels the change instantly. She's still cold, everything hurts terribly from the beatings and she knows they've barely begun. But new fear makes her tense up as she realizes now she's laying crumpled face down upon smooth tile. 'Where am I now? What's he going to do to me _here_?'

She turns to look up over her shoulder, fighting past the pain this causes. The haze about her is maroon in color, above which a field of white surrounds a small space. The room is brighter than her last cell, far smaller and she can hear the sound of machinery above her. It's much louder than the sound in her chamber, and sounds like a ventilation motor.

She reaches out toward the maroon field; her fingers touch the cold, smooth surface. She explores it, finds a tile about 5 inches square, surrounded by others of the same size.

It hurts so much to turn over that she almost gives in and lies still. But when she forces herself, she finds hazy areas of lighter color mingled with the maroon. From the sizes and positions she realizes their purpose. 'I'm in a bathroom,' she decides. "If you want me to think you're being considerate…" she mutters, her mouth and throat so dry she can barely speak, but she decides not to criticize before she can take benefit.

Climbing to her feet hurts too much, a sharp pain in her right rib stops her. She settles for crawling in the small space as well as she can, fighting the pain, very slowly easing herself along the smooth cold floor, trying not to think of anything at all.

At least the colors here are safer, she can see well enough to know she's alone. Gritting her teeth, she finally manages to climb up on the smooth surface and sit down.

She knows it's for no mercy that he has done this. If she loses control from the beatings, unconsciousness or the ravages of time, he'll have to smell it too.

'But _who _is doing this?' she asks herself, unable to imagine an answer. This brutality - this hatred, for it is surely personal - 'Who _hates _me this much?'

Certainly not everyone likes her, despite her best efforts, but who could do this? Who would kill that poor man or woman whose bones lay not in a hallowed grave but in the cell where he or she died?

'There's only one man who hates me - who could do this, but Charlie Morley is spending the rest of his life in a maximum security prison. I was there when they took him away. He's far from hurting another woman ever again. But who else could possibly?'

Horrible as it is, whoever did this knows her, so she knows him. That she could know two men so perverted is ...

x

'Is it Enkiss? Ever since taking this job my life has been one catastrophe after another. Have I made some enemy without realizing it? Or is it someone some Agent arrested? But _who_? They arrest so many!

'I should _quit_. God, this is no life for a parish priest. I sometimes thought this job would be the death of me - now it might be. Why did I ever say yes?'

But even as she thinks it, she knows it will never be. She's tried to help so many, _has _helped so many, since joining the Agency as its Chaplain.

'And it has brought me closer to Timmy and we're going to get married. I _will _see that day!'

x

Whoever did this planned it well. He lay in wait for her in the Rectory, and as a prison he couldn't have concocted a more effective one. The paint on walls and floor match his body perfectly. 'I couldn't even see him. He stood two feet from me, lay on _top _of me! He used me as a punching bag and I couldn't _see _him!'

She's afraid, so scared her heart races at the thought of what he did to her, what he _will _do to her. The pain in her breasts from those bites, which she fears will probably get infected if she does live, is nothing compared to that between her legs. 'He _raped _me! While I was unconscious _he raped me_! Again!'

She clenches her fists hard enough to drive her nails into her palms, the pain helping to break the thought. 'No! Can't think of that! I cannot _think _of that! He's going to do it again, I know it, and next time I'll be _awake_.'

Misery riding the crest of terror almost makes her sob aloud - she clamps both hands over her mouth to contain it. 'No! He _wants _me to cry. He wants to break me. I _won't _let him break me. He's not going to make me _cry_!'

x

She blesses herself, appeals for help, for strength to endure and fight, but trembles every time she thinks of being forced back into that room. She'd fight him as Timmy'd taught her, but she can't _see _him!

'He's going to kill me, just like he did that other poor soul. But first he's going to hurt me again. He's going to keep hurting me 'till he kills me.'

She squints at the sink, the effort changes nothing. She can barely make it out, it's just a white blur with silver splotches. 'I'm so thirsty, but whatever I drink ... Who _cares_?'

But when she finds and turns the handle she hears nothing; when she puts her hand under the tap she feels no more than a thin trickle. Catching it in her hand, she drinks what little she can get. It's barely enough to ease her parched mouth, does little to ease the rasping of her throat.

When she tries for more, it has slowed to a drip. She supposes it's good that she can't see it, but at least it tastes fresh.

x

'This is the best chance I have to get out of here. I can see here. I can _fight _him.' But as soon as she does anything to announce that she has completed her obligations, her captor will again take her, so she must be ready. But how?

'I could break the mirror - assuming there _is _one - find a big enough shard to use as a knife," she thinks, 'if I don't slice my hands to shreds looking for one before he gets in here.'

The second duty a prisoner has, Timmy taught her, if she can't escape, is to survive. She wants to survive, but she won't allow herself to be forced back into that cell. Her predecessor had died there, his or her body desecrated. And desecrated again when he'd knocked her over onto it. He'd used her for his perversions - _while _she was giving Last Rites!

Whether he or she had been murdered or starved to death, it's all the same. And if she goes back in there she may never come out.

'I'll have only one chance, so I'd better be quick and I'd better be hard.'

x

She finishes her obligations and forces herself to her feet, prepares her attack. Her fury flares as, whether from her weight off the seat or the action of a more insidious motion detector, the device flushes loudly. She hears the door before her open; a change in the blur shows her target.

With a shriek Siobhan hopes will be startling she launches herself at the blur. She doesn't try to punch but to use her nails as claws to his face, his eyes.

She never connects. Her forearm is hit by something and a fist slams into her face, snaps her head back. She staggers under a rain of punches, falls against the sink behind her. Bent backward, she's unable to block the merciless assault.

Fists slam into her body; she can't even cry out against the rapid blows. Pain. Every punch blasts pain into her. She can't fight back, can't protect herself. Her legs slip out from under her and she crashes to the floor. More pain; pain upon pain.

The punches stop and she's dragged back up, turned about, slammed hard into the cold tile wall. A bare arm from behind closes about her throat. Great strength lifts her off her feet, cuts off her air. She yanks on the arm, unable to breathe as she's carried out of the room by her throat. She digs her nails into the bare flesh, but rather than loosening, the strangling arm tightens viciously. The world starts to spin as she's carried backward, still clawing at the arm that holds her aloft.

He turns sharply. She has no air to scream as she's flung away. Her feet hit the cement floor of her cell first, her body slams down a moment later. She rolls on the cement, ends up on her back, gasping desperately, trying to fill her lungs. A moment later he's upon her. Terrified, she raises her hands. They're batted away.

New pains couple with old ones as fists batter her. She tries to claw at his face but can't find it. The fists pummel her, she tries not to scream but the pain is too horrible. She tries to flail at the invisible monster in the fog, she can't do anything as he pounds her over and over again. Her wrists are caught, forced together into a tight grip and her arms are slammed down above the head. She raises her knees in what she knows is a futile effort to hold him off. "Jesus," she whispers, "please have mer –!"

A hard fist cracks against her face, slams her head into the cement. Stunned, for a moment barely aware even in her terror, she can't move. The hand releases her wrists, two hands grip her knees, yank her legs apart. The force wrenches her muscles, it feels like they've been torn!

He's on top of her, pinning her. With her arms held above her head she can't stop him! A moment later she feels the brutal weapon force its way in.

She clamps her teeth to hold back her scream.


	8. Leher

Chapter Eight  
Leher

At four o'clock DiNozzo crosses the snow covered walk from the ranch style fence and rings the doorbell of Gabriel Leher's home. For several hours he and Ziva have interviewed many active members of St. Mary the Virgin's congregation, particularly 'party staff' Jack Wilson and Paul Rigeman, in an ever widening range.

Both he and Ziva are thankful this is the final stop, the furthest from the crime scene. It has been a long, fruitless day.

The door is opened by a young woman of about fourteen years. "Yes?"

Tony identifies himself and David. "We're looking for Gabriel Leher. Is he here?"

"Yes, he just got in a second ago." She leans inward, calls loudly past the door. "Dad! There are some people here to see you." A few moments later a tall man steps around the door, a brown haired woman joins him a second later. The couple appears to be in their forties, all three wear coats.

"Yes?"

DiNozzo repeats his identification. Clad as they are in heavy black jackets with badge insignia and black caps with white lettering, he hardly feels the need, though it is obligatory. "We'd like to have a word with you."

"I just got in; we're going out."

"It won't take long."

The Lehers exchange glances. It's clear they won't be leaving as early as they'd planned. "Okay."

"May we come in?" The temperature on this New Year's afternoon hovers at about 35 and he'd rather not conduct an interview on the front porch.

Mrs. Leher makes the decision for her family. "Of course, come on in."

"Thank you."

x

When they're inside, Tony and Ziva keep their thick coats on to block views of weapons they hope won't be needed. The Lehers remove their coats in expectation of a long delay. "We're sorry to take up your time like this, where were you going?" Tony's casual manner is calculated to elicit an answer and Mrs. Leher quite accommodatingly provides one.

"Shopping. I want to take advantage of the sales today."

"We'll try not to take too long. We're investigating an incident that took place last night at St. Mary the Virgin Church."

"Well, we were there, nothing happened. Gabe did the cooking. What is this about?"

"Barbara," Gabriel cuts in, annoyed. She had cut him off twice already, though the agent had clearly been speaking to him. "What's this about an incident?"

"About two o'clock this morning someone assaulted Reverend O'Mallor–"

"_Oh my God_, what _happened_?" Barbara cries. "Is she all right?"

"If you'll give him a second," Gabriel snaps, "he'll tell us!" When the woman is properly subdued, he turns back to DiNozzo. "What happened?"

"Is she all right?"

"Barbara!"

"Mrs. Leher," Ziva cuts in, "perhaps we might talk in the next room."

"That's a good idea," Gabriel decides, cocking his head to the doorway to his right, his look taking in their daughter as well.

When the two groups are separated, Gabriel Leher apparently feels he can finally speak without constant interruptions, except that the entire conversation is an interruption. "Now, what happened?"

DiNozzo has noted that Leher keeps his hands in his pockets, hardly a normal stance. He keeps alert for anything else out of the ordinary. "You did the cooking for last night's party?"

"Not a lot of cooking, no. There were hot dogs, hors d'oeuvres, sandwiches, beer, soft drinks, wine... and of course the champagne." His tone conveys that the beer, wine and champagne were the best parts of the night. "We had some stew, that and the dogs made up the cooking, I guess."

"A lot of work for three people?"

"Well, to be honest Jack Wilson did the cooking, Paul Rigeman and I did the schlepping, but really we were only hanging most of the time around Father Donaldson's TV. He has TiVo. Paul found last Sunday's Giants game."

"Hadn't you seen it?" Tony wouldn't have missed it.

"Yeah, but choosing between a rerun and the inane chatter in the Hall wasn't hard."

"Yeah, I know what you mean; I hate that stuff too. The Rev didn't mind you swiping his TiVo?"

"Nah, he's okay. He knew what we were doing." Gabe chuckles. "He came in and caught us; I guess you don't hear a lot of cheering over stew. He watched a couple'a minutes with us, then had to go back and be host."

"Just one of the guys."

"Yeah."

"What about Mother O'Mallory?"

"She's okay, I guess."

x

Tony can't miss the change; it's in the tightening of the eyes, the timbre of the voice and the smile that dropped off his face. It's what Tony had been waiting for, if it came, and is the main reason he'd spent the time establishing camaraderie. "But you don't exactly care for her."

"What makes you say that?"

He thinks he's moved a step too fast. "Come on, I know how it is."

"Yeah, well," Leher says nothing more.

"She's not one of the guys?"

"No way. I mean she's okay. She's nice, her sermons don't last forever – and she's one hell of a good looking broad."

"Tell me about it," Tony urges with a lecherous grin.

"But she's not one of the guys," Gabe Leher maintains, evidently happy to find a kindred soul. "She can't be. I mean, look at her. I mean, okay, there _are_ woman priests, a Bishop made her a priest but …."

"But?"

"Well, a lot of people like her, but there are some jobs a woman isn't _right_ for, you know?"

"Oh, I _know_."

"I mean, I have nothing against her, you know, she's a gorgeous bi – woman, you know? I just think, well, Father Donaldson's my Rector, you know what I mean? They used to have Father Schwint, he left about three years ago and it's too big a job for one man to handle but …."

"Why choose a woman?"

"Yeah. There are plenty of priests."

Tony knows there actually aren't enough priests in most denominations to staff existing parishes, but he won't mention that. "So, who got you working in the Rectory?"

"O'Mallory. She's always coming looking for volunteers to do things, you know? I guess that's a Curate's job, recruiting volunteers and so no. I hadn't wanted to do it, I wanted to spend the time with my family but I guess she went to Father Donaldson with a list because when he asked me I couldn't say 'no', you know what I mean?"

"Oh, yeah."

x

Tony can hardly miss the distinction; it's 'Father Donaldson' or 'Father Schwint' or 'O'Mallory'.

In the beginning the tall man had met his eyes, but ever since the topic had moved to Mother O'Mallory, Leher is unable to maintain long contact. His eyes dart, and the closest they come to his is a spot on DiNozzo's forehead. So frequently does he choose this spot that DiNozzo fights the urge to rub at an imagined smudge.

"Did you see the ball drop?"

"Yeah, I was there for that at least."

"What about Wilson or Rigeman?"

"We all were. Afterward we cleaned up. Father Donaldson said not to worry about the dishes, to leave them soaking and he'd take care of them in the morning. I guess he was tired too. We left about half past twelve. Why do you need to know all this?" he asks, seeming to remember the reason for their intrusion.

"As I said, early this morning Mother O'Mallory was assaulted in the Rectory."

"Not while we were there. I didn't see her all night."

"We know. This happened long after everyone left and Father Donaldson had gone to bed."

"Did she say what happened, who did it?"

"She's missing."

"Missing?"

Does he have enough surprise? Tony is undecided. "No one knows where she is."

He shrugs. "Wish I could help you. I was told she was at another party. I don't know where or with who."

Tony picks up on the stress on the last phrase. "With who?"

"Yeah, well, I guess it's no secret in the parish. O'Mallory's _dating _someone."

'Interesting.' "Do you know who?"

"No. Where was she assaulted?"

"In her bedroom."

Gabriel's response is a smirk. "You check out the boyfriend?"

"Oh, don't worry about that, I've got my eye on him. You think Mother O'Mallory had someone in her bedroom?" He stresses her title, and the place, trying to make the thought sound as unlikely as he can. He'll give Leher what benefit of the doubt he can and see how the man uses it.

But he's offended and does his best not to show it to a potential suspect. They're not talking about Ziva; the Warrior Princess is no Shrinking Violet - she can handle herself in a fight better than most men he knows. O'Mallory, however, is neither a trained agent nor, he suspects, any kind of a fighter. A priest is rarely confronted with violence and he suspects that, before this, she never has been. Their battles are fought on a different field. It makes Tony's outrage even keener.

x

"Well, all I'm saying," Leher continues, "is Father Donaldson doesn't allow anyone who visits upstairs. I have no idea what O'Mallory's rules are."

"She _is_ a priest," Tony reminds him, doing his best to hide his rapidly mounting annoyance.

"She's a woman." Leher pulls his left hand from his pocket long enough to check his watch. His knuckles are scraped. Badly. "If that's all you want to know, I really want to get going."

"What happened to your hand?"

Leher starts, caught off guard, as though he'd forgotten the scrapes he'd kept hidden. "I got into a fight yesterday," he temporizes. "Some guy at the meat market started the new year off early."

To DiNozzo it sounds like a very convenient story, easily checked. But though suspicious, he has no grounds to interrogate the man on it.

Yet.

If Leher got those abrasions in a fight, it was no short fight. Tony's known bare knuckle brawlers with less damage.

xx

In the car, Ziva recounts the details of her own interview. "Mrs. Leher says her husband dropped her and their daughter off at their home at about one a.m., but claimed he wanted to have the service station three blocks away look at the car."

"At one in the morning?"

"It is a twenty-four hour facility. He said he was having concerns about the steering. She said she went to sleep and has no idea what time he got home. He returned from picking up the car ten minutes before we arrived and suggested the shopping trip."

"We should pay this place a visit. Which way?"

Ziva consults her pad and the houses on the dead end street. "Right at the corner, then two blocks."

xx

The agents stand before the sign that hangs from the huge door of the garage. It politely explains to loyal customers that the repair portion of the establishment is closed from the 30th and will reopen January 2. "As Artie Johnson used to say on 'Laugh-In', 'Veeerrrryyyy interesting – but shhtupid'."

"You would think he would come up with a better alibi," Ziva says.

"You'd think."

"Afternoon," a voice calls from their left. They turn to see a young man in blue coveralls coming out of the gas station office. "Can I help you people?"

"Yeah," DiNozzo says, displaying his shield and ID, "your sign says twenty-four hour service?"

"Here, yeah, want some gas?"

"Sure. Ziva?" She gives him a brief glare but gets in to back the car toward the pumps while DiNozzo walks to the man. "What about the mechanic?"

"No, they close at ten. They're not open today, just the gas."

"Did you have a customer here this morning looking for service, say after 1:00?"

He gives a small laugh, reaches for the gas cover of the car, nozzle in his other hand, "I wasn't that unlucky. I've got the day shift, 9 to 5. Log showed we had thirty eight customers last night, though. Bob's the one to ask if you need that." He starts to fill the tank.

"But no one left their car here last night?"

"No reason anyone should. Wouldn't do 'em any good. And you can see the sign from the street. The owner, Chuck Bertoni, saw to that. When I got in, there was nothing abandoned."

"Any other stations around here?"

"Sure, a couple – but we give the best service."

"I'm sure you do."

"There're a couple of stations around, but we're the only one in a mile with a mechanic."

"Would any others be working late last night, say about one?"

He puts the nozzle away and closes the small door. "Would you be?"

"Good point."

x

DiNozzo settles the bill, adds a $5 tip and gets back into the car, drives out of the lot. "I love the stupid ones. Ring up Gibbs; we've got a live one for him."

But when he relays his suspicions and the family's afternoon plans, the expected pick-up isn't to happen. /Much as I'd like to, what's your proof?/

"None, boss. Just a gut feeling."

/Well, DiNozzo, you know how I feel about those. Check out his story./

"Leher says he got into a fight at the shop while picking up the food for last night's dinner. His knuckles were scraped."

/Were they now?/

"They were. Mucho. More like from a knock down, drag out."

/Well, find out what he scraped them on./

"And if it should happen to be a beautiful woman priest?"

/We'll pin a tail on him. I want an agent covering that place every minute, another on him wherever he goes. It's a safe bet he's not hiding her in the garage. What's your take on the family?/

"They're clean, can't say the same for him. Not so much in favor of women priests, runs his wife and daughter with a firm hand."

/I'll send Jackson and Carter out to watch the house, pick up his trail. If he's our man, he can tell us or I'll sic McGee on him./

"There won't be much left for Ducky," he warns. The line goes dead with no disagreement. Tony looks to the woman beside him. "Did Mrs. Leher happen to mention where that shop was?"

"As a matter of fact," she replies with a smile, "she did."

"I'm in the mood for some shopping."

xx

Not surprisingly, DiNozzo's desire to shop for either food or information is dashed. They sit in the car in front of the closed meat market.

"We shall have to come back in the morning." Ziva announces.

"I'll let you explain it to Rambo."

"We could bring Leher in for questioning."

"On what charge? Tusseling in the parking lot when we can't even prove there was or wasn't a tussel? We've got a tail on, maybe we'll get lucky fast. All _we've _got is a guy who isn't happy with his Church's hiring policy."

"I think we could come up with quite a bit more."

"Indubitably, my dear Watson."


	9. Hypnosis

Chapter Nine  
Hypnosis

Normally, at Headquarters, the shift would have clocked out at 1600. DiNozzo and David have returned with reports, a suspicion to be corroborated or refuted and a series of researches to continue. No Alpha shift agent is anxious to leave today, not with 'one of their own' in distress.

It is well, for at 1645 Abby calls Gibbs and McGee to her lab. "I read your report," she says as soon as they cross the threshold, "but I'll get to that."

Sometimes following Abby's reasoning is easier with a map - if anyone were able to devise one. "Get to what?" Tim asks.

"Your report, weren't you listening? Never mind. I wanted to tell you first, before I get into things and forget, that the Forensics team turned up a good left sneaker print on the stairs. It's from a size eleven and a half men's Adidas. I called Father Donaldson; he's a twelve and hasn't worn sneakers in weeks."

She knows the priest's public persona to be slightly less formal than Siobhan's, who rarely goes out in public out of 'uniform'; but between Advent, Christmas and Holy Name this has been two months for the priests that has allowed very little down-time.

"That's good work, Abs," Gibbs leaves unsaid that it could've been related with a phone call. He'll look into Gabriel Leher's footwear; maybe it'll help narrow DiNozzo and David's suspicions. "What did you want to see us about?"

"Oh, right," she turns to McGee. "You wrote that there might have been another car in the lot when you got there."

"I've been trying all day to remember it," Tim declares. His frustration has mounted over the hours. "I wasn't paying _attention_."

She ignores his stress. "I can help you remember."

"How?"

"I can hypnotize you," she launches immediately into her warp five proposal. "The mind's like a camera, it sees everything and doesn't forget, it's just a matter of recalling everything later. The brain stores billions of bits of information every minute but it filters between what's important and what's unimportant. To use a computer analogy, the unimportant stuff gets stored in another directory but it can be accessed. Hypnosis can help you do that."

"Well, it worked once, why not again?" He'd been hypnotized two years ago to recall details of a murder he'd witnessed in an apartment window while on stakeout across the street. "But I don't have Kate's contact."

"It was Tony's, but we don't need her. I can do it. I've done it half a dozen times already."

"When did you–? Never mind." The days are long past when he doubts her on anything. "Whatever it takes."

"Both of you come with me."

x

She picks up the remote control from her desk and uses it to lock the outer door, turns the lights down and then leads them into the small room past her office. There are scented candles lit and set around it and when she closes the door she turns on a CD player. Rather than her usual fare, soft violin music fills the air.

"Sammy Sky made me a couple of demo CDs for Christmas. You haven't _lived_ until you've heard 'Drain STH' on a violin! Anyhow, she also gave me this one because I think she was trying to reform me off rock."

They'd learned about this musical talent this from Ducky, who'd discovered it immediately after Sky had left NCIS' employ. It was then that Ducky had truly begun to get to know his former temporary assistant. They'd all been surprised to see and hear her when she'd been included in the Christmas pageant over two weeks ago. Right now, McGee doesn't really care, as long as whatever it is can help.

"Like it?" Abby asks.

"It's very soothing," he grants. Right now, he needs soothing.

"Sit down."

x

He sits in the high backed executive chair, settles into the leather, glad for the headrest. He puts his head back and tries to let go of his tensions. He figures he manages about one percent.

"Now don't you say a word, Gibbs, I'm the only one he's to hear. You want to say something, Sign me."

She turns off the lights in the room; the remaining illumination comes from the scented candles. "Mc– Tim, I want you to pick a spot across the room right in front of your eyes and I want you to stare at it." She softens and slows her voice. "Don't let your eyes drift. Don't try to keep focus, just relax and stare. Don't look at anything else, let everything around that spot fade away. It's not important. One spot. Don't bother keeping focus, just stare at one spot."

She continues to soften her tone and slow the cadence as he relaxes further. "Don't force yourself. Don't strain. When you feel your eyes get too heavy, you feel tired, let yourself go. But as long as your eyes are open, just stare. One spot, one point, nothing else. Nothing else is important, just that spot." She waits nearly a minute, watching his eyes.

"All right," she lowers her voice still further, slows it, makes it as soft as she may. "Tim, you still have that spot?"

"Yes," his voice is equally subdued.

"When you feel too tired to keep focused any longer, let your eyes close. You're relaxed."

x

Listening to the soft voice and soothing violin, McGee stifles a yawn, realizing he'd had no idea how tired he was. Elation had kept him awake for most of the night and he's run on anxiety since morning. He allows the world to drift away under the calming music, relaxing scents and Abby's gentle voice.

"You're drifting in a rowboat on a placid lagoon." Abby pauses for long moments between each phrase, making sure he's succumbing to the soothing violin music. It will play continuously until they're done.

"Let your eyes drift closed, relax, hear only my voice and the music. The boat's barely moving, shielded from the gentle waves. The rocking is so soft you can barely feel it. You hear only the music and my voice; smell the lovely flowers on the shore, feel the so gentle drifting."

She can see the suggestions are having their effects and she softens her voice still further, extending the interval between the phrases.

"You're drifting, drifting, only drifting. You're tired, you haven't slept in so long and it's so peaceful here. You want to doze but you can still hear my voice. You're almost asleep, let yourself go. That's it. Just sleep. Sleep. Hear only the music and my voice. Let yourself go."

She gives it a very long moment, asks as softly as she can; "Can you hear me?"

"Yes..."

x

"I want you to leave the lagoon. It's last night. You're in the parking lot of St. Mary's. You're with Siobhan. It's been a good party and you both feel safe and happy."

"Happy, yessss..."

"What's happening?"

"... we're in the lot ... talking. Kissing."

Abby smiles, glancing back at Gibbs. This is no surprise. "Are there any cars around you?"

"…yes."

"How many?"

"… four ... there are four…."

"Do you know whose they are?"

"... Father Donaldson's blue Corolla ... Shav's green Fiesta ... a white Dodge delivery van … one more."

"Look at that fourth."

He frowns. "... can't see it."

"Why?"

"... too dark …."

"When you came into the lot, what did you do?"

"... circled the lot so Shav's door would be by the Rectory's..."

"Circle again, but focus on that car. Was there a moment when your headlights hit it?"

"…yes."

"Focus on it, Tim. See it. See it clearly, it's right there in front of you. What color is it?"

"…snow…"

"Not on all of it. Look low."

"Blue. Blue ... 1995 ... Ford E350..."

x

Gibbs decides it's a perfect choice. Long body, the only windows are at the driver and passenger seats. The rear two thirds are enclosed, a kidnapper's dream car.

"What's the license?"

"... can't see the license, side…"

"Go forward in time. Was there a time when you saw the front or back? Go forward slowly. Slowly."

He is silent for a long moment, then smiles slowly, broadly.

"What just happened?"

"... Shav just said yes … she'll marry me …."

x

Abby's face falls as the words slap her. Marry? Tim and Siobhan?

She feels a sharp tap on her shoulder and looks back and up. Gibbs gestures sharply: /Van/

Abby turns back to the smiling agent, trying to focus, to bury her own feelings. She can't. "Tim, do you see the license plate of the blue van?"

"Yes…."

"What is it?"

"...Virginia license, Uniform Foxtrot Alpha 647..."

x

Abby, caught uncertain by her lingering distress, feels a nudge at her shoulder and Gibbs signs for her to bring him out. She tries to swallow her feelings, wonders if Gibbs has any for anything but the case.

"Tim, I want you to come back now. You're no longer in the lot or in the boat on the lagoon. You're in my lab at NCIS. I'm going to count down from five. When I say 'wake up' you will awaken and feel calm, rested and refreshed, with a clear memory of everything that happened last night. Do you understand?"

"…yes..."

"All right, five … four … three … two … one … wake up."

x

McGee sits up, fully alert; "Did it work?"

"Blue 95 Ford E350 van," Gibbs says, pulls him out of the seat and pushes a notepaper into his hand, "Virginia license Uniform Foxtrot Alpha 647, get upstairs and run it."

He's halfway out of the small room when he turns back, remembering. "Thank you." It penetrates his attention that, as good as he feels, she looks sad rather than elated that her plan worked. "What's wrong?"

It takes her a moment before she can say the words. "You're getting married, McGee."

He's astonished. How much more did he reveal under hypnosis? "It's supposed to be a secret."

"I wish I'd never found out."

Unable to know what to say to ease her discomfort, he turns and hurries to his search.

x

Left alone, Abby silences the music and turns on the lights, aware then that Gibbs is still here.

"Hey, you okay?" He knows the pair had had an 'on-again, off-again, where-are-we-now?' relationship for years, since before McGee's assignment to the Navy Yard. It had cooled over the summer months when he and Ziva had heated, then that relationship, strained as it was, had given way.

"Sorry. I mean, how many times do I need it thrown in my face before I get it? I figured this would happen when they got together. But ... I guess this makes it final."

Gibbs, not one for displays of empathy, chooses to leave, to leave her to deal with her feelings.

xx

McGee transmits the BOLO, makes it a separate document from the one for Siobhan, as well as updating the original one, covering both probabilities. He no sooner hits 'send' when Michelle Palmer, at the desk to his right, calls his attention.

"Tim, there is no blue E350 with that license."

"Of course there is. I _saw_ it."

"Uniform Foxtrot Alpha 647?"

"That's it."

"Are you sure you saw it right?"

"Did you _run_ it right?"

"I ran it twice."

He's out from behind his desk and to hers in a moment. "And ran it _wrong_ twice!"

"Sir, I–!" but when he leans over her desk his anger vanishes. On the screen is the DMV report. "Uniform Foxtrot Alpha 647 is a red Windstar, registered to Martin Tallman; 1321 North Capital Street."

"No, that _can't _be! I see it as clearly as I see you."

"There's nothing beats a personal recce," DiNozzo advises.

McGee turns back to Palmer. "Come on."

x

When his car emerges from the garage into the night, McGee forces his tension down enough to address the silent woman beside him. "I'm sorry, Michelle. I didn't mean to yell at you."

"You didn't yell," she says, essaying a smile.

"Well, it felt to me like yelling."

"Special Agent Gibbs has a strong influence."

"I hope not. I don't want to grow to be a bastard."

She reaches out to touch his arm, "You're not a bastard. You're concerned. I know what it's like." Three weeks before their wedding, Jimmy had been shot and she'd been terrified he would die. She never wants anyone she cares for to feel that fear.

"They can't understand what it must be like for her," Tim says, trying to put so many distresses into words. "They care, but they can't understand!" He wants to be out there tearing through suspects, breaking down lies; _finding _her!

"I understand."

"_How could you_ –?" he bites it off as he turns to her and sees her eyes. He wishes he could pull the words back.

The secret they share they keep even from her husband. Jimmy and the others know he and Michelle had been captured by enemy agents months ago. But though he'd suffered a host of visible wounds, the injuries Michelle had suffered were invisible to the eye. She'd made him swear never to reveal what those three men had done to her. "I'm sorry, Michelle." He won't say he forgot; he doesn't have to. He feels so selfish, having pushed her past back with his own present.

"I've tried to forget," she says softly, wishing she could distance herself from those horrible memories, wishing she could block them out. "I've prayed I could forget. I've prayed, but I can't forget. But you remember even what's hazy to me, when I kept fainting."

"I remember." He remembers being chained, wounded, helpless to prevent her degradation. They'd stopped torturing him and began abusing her to break him, to force him to give up the Delphi code.

"I don't even know, I kept fainting, how many times they raped me while you hung from those chains."

He locks all his attention out the windshield, not wanting to see her face. Her tone had been empty. To risk feeling anything at all is to open herself to too much.

"Seven."


	10. Dead

Chapter Ten  
Dead

Arriving at Martin Tallman's house, Tim is tense. Is this Siobhan's kidnapper? He's sure the license doesn't belong to a red Windstar, but he has his Sig loosened in its holster before knocking. The door opens and Tim looks up.

"Martin Tallman?" McGee doesn't know why he bothers to ask. At six one, he meets very few people who make him feel this short.

The agents identify themselves, not specifying why they're interested in the man's car.

"What does NCIS want with me?"

"We're checking some information in an investigation, probably nothing to do with you directly," he says, hoping to lull the giant into a sense of ease. Actually, he wishes he'd come with Gibbs or even DiNozzo. Palmer can handle herself in a fight, but he'd far prefer to reduce the chance of there being one.

"Do you have a blue Econovan, license UFA647?"

"That's my license, yes, but it's not a blue van. It's a red Windstar."

"May we see it please?"

"Why?"

"We're investigating a possible abduction," The word 'possible' sticks in his throat.

"Not me. Not my car. The furthest I've driven it in two days is from the driveway into the garage to keep it out of the snow."

"Do you _own _a 350?" Maybe the DMV cross-referenced the registration.

"No, just the Windstar."

"Are you sure?"

"Of _course_ I'm sure."

Michelle steps in before the man can further question Tim's competency. "We think a blue 350 was involved in the kidnapping, but a witness gave us your license."

"Well, whoever it was made a mistake - though that's a hell of a mistake. But I'll show you my car, just to prove it. It's in the garage."

x

Pulling on a coat from the closet by the door, Tallman leads them across to the garage, unlocks and raises the door. The agents can see that the wide door had not moved since the early morning snowfall; sheets of white fall from it under the movement and vibrations. Within the garage there's space enough for only a single car, the red Windstar, but "That's not my plate," Tallman declares. He rushes to the front of the car, outraged at what he finds. "Those aren't my plates!"

The ID on the Windstar reads ATS 438, which Tim writes into this notebook. "Do you know whose plates these are?"

"No."

Michelle already has her cell phone out, rapidly pushing buttons. "I'm texting Agent DiNozzo, asking him to look up Alpha Tango Sierra 438."

"Call him too."

"Yes, sir."

It would have been more efficient to call first, something he'll discuss with the woman when they're alone. Instead he turns to Tallman. "We need to have a Forensics team come down, see if we can lift prints or anything from these plates."

"Take them, I sure as hell don't want them." He looks disgustedly at the offending tags, then back to McGee. "I need mine back, can you get them? Or speed up replacements?" It's a moment before he realizes the chances of this on New Year's Day. "I need to drive to work tomorrow."

"I'll see what I can do," he gives Tallman one of his business cards. "In the meantime, if you're stopped have the officer call me, I'll fix it."

"Thanks," Tallman, angry, says not at all graciously.

x

Using tools borrowed from Tallman, McGee removes and bags the metal plates. Palmer uses a field kit to dust for and remove prints from the car, the pair trade places when they finish each respective end. Tallman hovers over them, curious about the fingerprinting procedure, though they each suspect he's particularly watching Michelle.

McGee is glad they had no trouble with the giant. He also doesn't hint his intent to send a team back to impound the car if the story doesn't check out. Tallman is going to have more problems getting to work than he expects.

x

Back in his car, he asks Michelle to call Abby to tell her they're bringing back evidence for analysis.

"She'll be thrilled," Michelle predicts, looking out at the night. She's already phoned Jimmy to give him an estimate on how soon she'll be home, barring Gibbs' decision to keep them overnight.

"That's why I'm having you call," he tells her with a smile that's clearly forced.

"Thanks."

xxx

When they reach Headquarters, McGee sends Palmer upstairs to make a personal report to Gibbs and the others while he goes directly to the Forensics lab.

"What did you find?" he demands.

Abby turns, the startled reprimand about courtesy and not 'Gibbsing' her dies on her lips when she gets a look at his eyes. Instead she crosses the room and embraces him, the silent hug extends until gradually the statue tightness of his muscles softens. "McGee, we're going to find her, I swear. I'm going to use every bit of skill I have and I will get your answers."

"I know you will."

His soft tones carry more concession than assurance and she draws back so she can see his eyes. She doesn't like what she finds there. "You should go home, McGee."

"I _can't _go home. Don't you realize that the longer she's missing the–?"

"Tim, I realize it perfectly. I also know it's very late and you'll be here in the morning, chomping for answers and wanting to put in a full day. You need sleep. Now get out of here and let me find my answers before I sedate you and dump you on the floor in the back room."

Unable to argue either the logic or the threat, he nods and turns.

"McGee?" He turns back to her. "I'll call you if I find anything."

"Thank you, Abs." He walks out, unable to bear staying any longer.

xx

By the time McGee gets to the lamp-lit Operations room, only Gibbs is in the bullpen and he's putting on his coat. "Boss?"

"Alpha Tango Sierra 438 is the blue Econovan. I've given the info to Jenkins."

"But where are–?"

"Don't say it, McGee. It's late, it's been a very long day and I'm betting you didn't sleep much after proposing. Go home. Sleep. That's an order."

"I'm not _tired_!"

Gibbs knows that is because of Abby's final instruction to him when she'd hypnotized him (why'd she have to phrase it like that?) but his body will catch up to him sooner rather than later. "Go anyway."

"How _can_ I–?"

It's time to bear down; he comes nose-to-nose with the man. "Can you _live _with yourself if a clue comes in tomorrow and you miss it because you're dead on your feet?" He doesn't answer, so Gibbs lowers his tone. "Jenkins' team is on this now. If I thought we'd break this case a minute faster by having the five of us pounding the pavements looking for her I'd do it. Sleep. Come in awake. That's what _she_ needs you to do."

xxx

Siobhan gradually wakes to the taste of blood. Laying on her side, she reaches up to her lips and finds a tacky line of dried blood that has trailed across her left cheek. She's been hurt so often that even the blast of adrenaline-laced fear can't make her move faster.

She knows there's far more blood. Pain fills her body and she doesn't want to imagine the bruises and worse that cover her.

She reaches higher, touches her forehead, then down to her diaphragm, has to fight pain as she reaches for her left shoulder.

A hand clenches about hers and twists hard, forces a startled cry. Her eyes useless in the blur of the flesh-painted room, she had no warning as the hand twists further, forces her to turn over on the cold cement to keep him from breaking her wrist!

Her arm is wrenched high behind her back and she grits her teeth, bites back the scream. He forced one startled exclamation from her, he won't get another.

She kicks back at him beside her, unable to get any force, and swings with her left arm but he catches it and forces that arm up behind her back as well. Powerful hands trap her wrists, her kicks do no good.

"Scream for me," his harsh voice commands. It's guttural, grating. She doesn't recognize it.

"No, you bastard! _No_!"

He shoves upward. Siobhan feels as though both arms are being forced from their sockets. She grits her teeth, bites back the scream.

He moves behind her, one hand now holds both crossed wrists high behind her, she feels his other hand force her cheeks. "No! Pl–" she bites back the plea, tries to wiggle her hips but he traps her, his knees on each side of her legs.

"_Beg_, bitch! Beg me not to!"

"NO!" she groans. She's sure now; she doesn't know this guttural voice. She feels him move, tries to shift her hips, free her cheek from his spreading grip, to be a moving target. His weight covers her, he jlays atop her, pins her down, her trapped arms flare in agony between their bodies.

"_Beg_ me!"

"Mary, Lady of Mercy, _help_!" A knife of brutal flesh stabs her. She clamps back her shriek!

xxx

Tim McGee enters his apartment, turns and slams the door with all his might. He knows it's a petty target for his broiling rage, but he has no human target to attack.

Yet.

Feeling no better about Gibbs' commanding him to retire for the evening, even admitting it's the sensible thing to do, he lifts his laptop screen to reactivate it, determined to continue the search. He enters his bedroom and turns on the plasma screen on the wall beside his bed, volume high so he can hear it from his desk.

Sitting down at the workstation, he fights the urge to pound his fingers into the keyboard, tries to bury his frustration in constructive work, tracing the progress of the BOLO he'd put out so long ago. '_Someone_ must have seen something – if I can only find out who!'

x

Minutes later, having virtually ignored the loud voice streaming in from the bedroom, his attention is torn by "Police still have no clues following the murder of Reverend Siobhan O'Mallory of Saint Mary the Virgin Church on New York Avenue–"

The chair crashes behind him as he runs into the bedroom where his heart seizes in his chest. On the wide screen is Shav's smiling image, a portrait showing her blue shirt and encircling white collar. Under her name are the date and year of her birth and today's date!

"No motive is known for the slaying of the Episcopal Priest, and there are as yet no suspects. Anyone with information is urged to call Metro PD at –"

Tim's cell phone is in his hand in an instant, but he is not calling Metro, he calls one of his contacts at ZNN. "_Mark_!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Delacorte is gone for the day," a woman's voice answers sweetly. "Who may I say is calling?"

"This is Special Agent Timothy McGee, NCIS! Who the _Hell_ said to issue a bulletin that Siobhan O'Mallory is _dead_?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know what–"

"Put your boss on _NOW_!"

It's fifteen eternities while Tim listens in agony to the droning voice on the screen before a male voice gets on and he identifies himself again. "We issued a BOLO that Siobhan O'Mallory is _missing_! _Missing_! Not _Dead_! _Missing_! Do you know the difference?"

"Sir, ZNN stands by every story it airs. If you have a problem, you may take it up with–"

"I'm taking it up with _you_! You get that story _right_ and you get it right _NOW_!" He squeezes the disconnect button nearly hard enough to break it and turns in furious expectation to the screen. But before the awaited retraction can be presented, he hears knocking at his door. He goes out, peeks through the viewer and doesn't know how much worse his day can become.

He pulls open the door, annoyed to find the glass had not deceived him. Tony DiNozzo stands in his hall.

x

"Tony, I can't _deal _with you right now!"

For the first time in too long, he sees that the expression on the man's face is not mocking, not comic, not teasing. "I know what you're feeling. I just wanted to say 'I'm here for you, buddy'."

It is the last thing Tim had expected his friendly nemesis to say. "You really mean that."

"'Course I mean that. I know I've given you a hard time in the past, one or two … million times, but this is different. You and I are brothers and we're gonna see this through."

Tim can't think of anything to say or do, so Tony does. Tim had never imagined he would ever stand in his doorway hugging his tormentor.


	11. Prayers

Chapter Eleven  
Prayers

Siobhan hurts so much she doesn't want to think of moving. What she sees when she forces her eyes open rips at her. She'd dreamt of rescue, of being back with Timmy, but unchanging flesh-colored blur surrounds her. The misery of defeat is as bad as the pain.

'Oh God, please, no more. I can't take any more!'

Straining her eyes, she can't distinguish anything around her other than the bright area above her head. The only thing that can be worse than laying naked on this rough cement floor is to move, but move she must. She struggles to sit up, fights the pain for every slow inch. She almost doesn't make it. He'd sodomized her, hurting her so brutally she feels ripped apart; she's scared to learn how badly he's damaged her. Agony from more rapes than she can count tears at her, every movement brings more horrific torture.

She forces movement through the pain, each inch brings new flares of agony but she forces herself to sit up. 'I am not going to die on my back. I'm not going out a helpless victim!'

She looks about, turns cautiously, but nothing distinguishes one bit of the blur from another. Is he here watching? Probably. He's done it so often.

The bones she knows are close to some wall are lost in the haze. She's terrified, longs to push it down to just being afraid. Her tormentor might still be in the room, but she can't see him. The air stinks, a nauseating mixture of sweat and male sex.

She fights against the pain, against her churning stomach. She's hungry, thirsty ... and has no idea of the time. It could be midnight or the height of the day. She only knows that she hurts, and she's losing track of the beatings.

x

She's doesn't know anymore even how many times she'd been assaulted. The last time she'd been raped, perhaps the most painful for _where _he'd raped her, she'd bitten her own lips to keep from screaming. She wouldn't to give the monster the satisfaction, but that didn't ease the agony one bit. She'd wanted to cry, but wouldn't. She'd wanted to scream, but wouldn't. She'd wanted to fight back - but _couldn't_.

Frustration tears at her. She hates being helpless and he's made her helpless. He beats and rapes her at will, at his pleasure; and, blind, she can't even see it coming. Even when he's atop her his body blends into the six sides of the flesh-colored cube and, though she can see he might as well be invisible.

She fights the tears. It would be so easy to give in, to sob in her pain, cry in her misery, wail against helplessness and weep at the abuse, but she _won't_.

'I won't give in. He wants me to give in. He wants me to cry - that's his ultimate humiliation. He wants me to scream, to beg ... to _cry_. No! I can't stop him from hurting me, but I'll be damned if he'll break me!'

x

She reaches up, touches the center of pain in her right breast. When the brutal anal rape hadn't been enough to make her scream he'd forced her over and bit her. He'd forced her again, shoved his disgusting thing into her while biting her over and over again. She'd fought in silence, gritting her teeth to contain the shrieks he wanted.

He only hurt her worse.

The horrible agony of these rapes had been worse than the beatings that followed each.

Invisible blows drove her into cement walls, to cement floor. She'd tried to fight back; it was hopeless. She swung at where she thought he was, he was never there - but that didn't stop him from battering her. He hit her and hit her and hit her. When she fell or crashed into walls and slammed to the cement floor he hauled her back to her feet - either by her hair or by her _breasts _and continued punching and kicking her!

She so bitterly hates to be so helpless, forced to endure beatings and rapes from an enemy she can't see. She tried to fight but never had the chance. None of her swings connected, but he had no trouble finding and hitting her. Under a barrage of fists and feet she'd been battered until she lost consciousness again.

Now she's awake. 'How long is it?' But a more horrible thought clutches her pounding heart in an icy grip: 'What's he going to do to me next?'

x

Thirst and hunger tear at her and bring their own poignant torments. She tries to push them back.

She can't push them back.

Terror upon terror tears at her. He could be right in front of her, behind her - she can't see him! She can't defend herself when she can't _see _him!

She knows the only possible end to this torment. 'He's going to kill me. Maybe not yet, not today, but he's going to kill me. Oh Timmy, I'm so _sorry_! I'll never see you again. I wish I could tell you how much I love you, how I miss you.'

x

She fights to keep from crying, not allowing herself to show or give in to the very weakness he wants. She doesn't know if she's alone or if he's behind her, beside her, but she won't give in. Crying would be the worst testament of her helplessness. He wants to break her spirit as much as her body, that's why the unending series of humiliations. But if she can't fight him with fists, she'll fight him in any way she can.

x

There's only one thing she _can _do, the only thing that has meaning, and she fights the pain to do it. She'd tried this already and been beaten, sodomized for it. She's not going to stop.

She slowly forces herself to her knees, barely able to tolerate the added pain. Her left knee flares in horrible agony, almost toppling her over, almost ripping tears from her. She has to balance on her right knee. 'Mom always said I had more stubbornness than sense.'

No matter how much it hurts, she's determined she will meet God on her knees, where she belongs. 'If I'm going to die, I'm going to die right!'

She slowly raises her fingers to her forehead, low to her abdomen, to her left and then right shoulder, then interlaces her fingers before her.

She will die with prayer on her lips. She doesn't know what time it is, nor does it matter. It doesn't matter what she prays, just that she does. She would focus on the familiar prayers of the Eucharist; and while in this one she has neither water nor wine to consecrate, there's her sweat and more than enough blood.

She chooses her favorite. If she's to die, she can be forgiven the indulgence. "God of all power, Ruler of the Universe, you are worthy of glory and praise." She can only whisper, her voice scratchy and raw. She hasn't enough moisture to speak aloud. "Glory to you forever and ever."

She fights the pain, tries to find a position on her knees that doesn't hurt as much. There isn't one.

"At your command all things came to be; the vast expanse of interstellar space, galaxies, suns, the planets in their courses, and this fragile Earth, our island home. By your will they were created and have their being." Slowly, too slowly, fear starts to ease, her focus on the essence, on what matters to her above all else.

"From the primal elements you brought forth the human race, and blessed us with memory, reason and skill," she whispers, her voice cracking. So thirsty, so very thirsty. If only she had even a drop of real wine.

"You made us the rulers of creation. But we turned against you, betrayed your trust, and we turned against one another. Have mercy, Lord, for we are sinners in your sight."

She won't long for the safety of the Sanctuary, the Lamb of God rests in her heart.

"Again and again you called us to return. Through prophets and sages you revealed your righteous Law. And in the fullness of time you sent your only Son, born of a woman, to fulfill your Law, to open for us the way of freedom and peace. By his blood he reconciled us, by his wounds we are healed."

She hears the door open, but though her heart jumps and fear spikes, but purposely ignores the door. Pain is coming. Brutality is coming. Rape is coming and she can't fight effectually - but she's talking to God.

The bastard can wait.

At least now she knows where he is, even if he's invisible in the cloud that presses her eyes.

"And therefore we praise you, joining with the heavenly chorus, with prophets, apostles, martyrs and with all those in every generation who have looked to you in hope, to proclaim with them your glory in their unending hymn: Holy, holy, holy Lord, God of power and mi–"

A hand tangles in her red hair and she bites back a scream as she is dragged to her feet!

x

Siobhan clutches her scalp, tries to keep her hair from being pulled out by the roots, helpless as she is turned and a fist slams into her stomach. She can't double over, clutches her stomach as her breath rushes out but she's held by the tight grip in her hair. The fist slips under her hands, rams into her diaphragm, rips her breath away again. She can't protect herself from a third punch, this one higher above her hands.

When her hair's released she crashes to the cement, slams onto her right side. She curls up against the pain, breathless and nauseated.

She can't get her breath, tries to focus over the pain, tries to force herself to inhale, tries to control it. It takes a long time for her to gasp a breath, then another. Only gradually can she regain a normal pace, catch her breath, fight the nausea. She tries to focus on stilling her stomach, having nothing left to vomit, but she feels so sick she can't fight it. She can only groan, it's too long before she can silence this and too slowly she regains control of her stomach.

The nausea takes forever to fight.

"Why…?" she forces herself to moan. "Why are you _doing_ this?"

There's no answer. She tries to turn her head, to look up, but the pain and unshed tears have blurred her vision even more. She can see nothing. "Jesus, please –" but her whisper is cut off as a hand grasps her ankle and pulls her leg upward. She bites back a plea for mercy, knows she will get none, knows he only cares about raping her _again_.

Too late she realizes her mistake and reaches to protect herself. His foot crashes into her and this time Siobhan does shriek.

xxx

Ziva David looks past her monitor when Tony comes into the bullpen. He's on time, the clock just touches 0700 but "You look terrible."

"Thanks," he says, tossing his coat across his chair.

Actually, she must admit this is an exaggeration, but the man is unshaved, his hair looks like he'd skipped a shower and she doesn't want to get close enough to test that assumption. She can't miss that he is wearing yesterday's pants, which don't go with today's shirt.

"What time did you get to bed?" There was a day when she would have phrased it differently, but he had not been with her and they have an understanding she knows he is wise enough not to violate.

"I didn't," he admits, his voice scratchy. He tries to clear it. "Up all night, well, until three, on an errand of mercy."

"What mercy?"

"Guy talk." He catches her expression. "You have girl talk you talk about."

"I do not."

"And I don't talk about guy talk." She can see he doesn't care that he's missed her point.

"Before Gibbs asks us what we have," he says, "what do you have?"

"There are no credible hits on the BOLO, and the only thing of interest is that ZNN last night issued a very interesting retraction on their news article. It seems they got the details wrong and announced Mother O'Mallory as being dead."

"I know. It sent the Probie right through his ceiling."

"How do you know that?"

"I heard."

"What did you hear, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asks as he strides into the bullpen, large cup of coffee in his hand.

"Nothing, boss, the BOLOs are a bust. When I was upstairs getting some breakfast I saw Abby getting into the elevator and heading for her lab."

"You had time for breakfast but not a shower?"

"Up all night, boss."

"Don't want to hear about her," he doesn't see DiNozzo's aggrieved expression. "What do you have? Then hit the showers."

"Nothing. Hitting." He stalks out of the bullpen, wondering if _any_ good deed goes unpunished. But when the elevator doors open, Tim McGee and Michelle Palmer are on the other side. The look the men exchange makes him rethink the uselessness of the night. Maybe some good deeds are good after all.


	12. Lost

Chapter Twelve  
Lost

When Siobhan realizes she's awake she can't force her eyes open. Fighting pain up both arms she reaches up and carefully peals tear encrusted eyes open, seeing nothing has changed about her captivity save for new pain. She doesn't remember passing out from this latest assault, more torture than rape. Her last memory is an 'invisible' fist to her jaw, one of two many, and spinning about to slam into the wall.

She lies on her back and tries not to give in to the misery that rips her. Not only will she not give her captor the satisfaction of making her cry but she doesn't have the moisture to lose.

"Father," she appeals, fights the pain in her dry throat to get the rasping words out, "please bless Timmy. And if I'm called home today help him to not give in to anger or hate."

She touches her left breast and it ignites a new flare of pain. She's scared, can't even bear to think of whatever damage he's–

"Ready for more?"

She jumps, cringes at the words, but can barely turn her head toward the sound. "Please..."

"Please what?" His voice is laden with brutal satisfaction.

She'd been about to ask for mercy but stops herself. She knows there will be none. "Water," she rasps, barely able to force the word out.

"Sure," he is much closer, kneeling beside her. Siobhan can barely distinguish movement in the flesh-on-flesh blur. "I'll give you something to drink."

A hand twists in her hair, lifts and turns her head. Pain in her scalp, neck and shoulders mingles with her back as he forces her to turn. "You'll have to _work _to get it."

Something firm and meaty presses to her lips. She clamps her mouth shut, disgusted. "Come on, you're thirsty."

The nauseating rod presses harder, she fights to keep it out. A hand clamps about her left breast, squeezes, twists hard. She grits her teeth, tries to hit him but can't work up and strength. Her hands seem to bounds off him. He clenches her breast, _crushes _it - she can't hold back the scream and he forces the disgusting rod into her mouth.

xxx

"What did you find on O'Mallory's laptop?" Gibbs asks.

"A lot of personal secrets," McGee tries to convey how little he'd wanted to make the discoveries he had. There is so much he'd rather not have invaded.

Gibbs would rather have avoided giving the assignment to his computer expert, but is glad he seems able to handle it without letting his feelings destroy his judgment. And if he's found a lot of personal stuff, well, he _is _going to marry the woman.

"What about enemies? Anyone?"

"Nothing I can find, going back to when she joined NCIS." There, that was impersonal enough. Focus on the job, not–

"There were the incidents we know about," he tells his teammates, trying for an impersonal tone and utterly failing. "Those perps are still behind bars. I checked. If she's having issues with anyone at the church, she never mentions it."

There had been considerable contemplation in her diary about a number of things, from soul-searching on her place in NCIS to many things more personal - and flattering - that he doesn't intend to share.

There is, however, no clue to this nightmare.

The search progresses and Tim, seeing the determination of his partners, does his best to push aside the rising tide of apprehension and focus on his job.

xx

"What do you mean '_lost him_'?" McGee's shout into his telephone turns heads throughout the Operations complex. "_What the hell does 'lost him' mean_?"

He listens, seething, saying nothing for nearly a minute. When he puts down the receiver it is with the utmost care, as though he is fighting slamming the unit down. When he looks up, Gibbs is standing in front of his desk.

"McGee," the Marine's quiet voice carries danger in every syllable, "you had better have a very good explanation."

"Jenkins had the explanation," he says in equally restrained tones. He wants to shout - again - but knows if he doesn't keep his voice under his last erg of control he'll be booted from the case. "Last night his team had Wilson's, Rigeman's and Leher's places under surveillance. This morning they were each trailed to their jobs, where Lamb's team was to take the baton. The handovers for Wilson and Rigeman went off with no problem but when Gerardi was tracking Leher he lost him at a traffic light.

"He didn't think to report it, figuring Leher was heading in to work, he was on that route. But when Gerardi got there for the handoff to Levy, Leher had never arrived. Levy's staying at the job site, Gerardi's trying to backtrack."

Gibbs pulls out his cell phone, hits a speed dial combination. "Higgins, Gibbs, we have a problem; one of our suspects is on the loose. Coordinate with Gerardi."

/We'll find him./

"McGee," he says, closing the phone, "take a break." The fire in McGee's eyes convinces him it's the right call.

"I don't _need _a–!" Tim stops, forces himself to unclench his teeth. "Yes, boss."

xxx

George Donaldson pulls the Sacristy door inward slightly, looks through the thin sliver between the thick doors into the church. Normally a weekday 9:00 Mass is populated with only the most faithful who dot the Nave. Now it seems most of the pews have at least one person in them. He calculates about 80 people; this includes everyone from the Senior Nutrition Program. He turns at the sound of the hallway door opening, closes the door as Ellen Meyers enters.

"They're all in there," she tells him.

"It's sad when it takes a tragedy to get people out of a meal and into the church," he says as he secures the amice about his head and body, pulls it down and and then pulls the long white alb on over his black cassock.

"There were 57 messages on the answering machine this morning. Most of them came after that damned announcement by ZNN. I've taken three calls in the past twenty minutes – but I don't know what to _tell_ anyone. I saw one newspaper article, page three, it gave a really detailed report, photo and all, saying anyone with information should call NCIS."

"I just hope it helps, that they're getting information." He's frustrated that the calls that come in are questions rather than answers; he'd taken several of the calls that had slipped past Meyers over the heavily laden line. "What's the gist of the calls from last night?"

"Disbelief at first: 'I just heard, is it really her?', then asking for news, sympathy when she was 'dead', then anger. There's a _lot_ of anger. Everybody loves her."

x

Donaldson knows that, even if the 'everybody' is a hopeful exaggeration, Siobhan is still well regarded. He has prayed that the ZNN blunder hasn't been prophetic, but other than that he has no answers either. "Are the flyers ready to go?"

"Fifteen hundred. We have volunteers coming in who'll take stacks and post them all over their own neighborhoods. I've been on the phone to many other churches in the Diocese and e-mailed copies for them to print and post. The word's getting out."

"No calls from–"

"Not a word," she says, anticipating him. No calls for ransom, nobody claiming responsibility. "I'm standing by the phone all day. To think that somebody could do this, it makes me so _mad_ I could…."

Words fail her, however. He knows she doesn't have the mind it takes to call down such vengeance as she would seek.

"We must trust in the Lord, Ellen. We are all in His hands."

"Yes, Father." She would say more, he senses she's holding back. "Father, may I ask you a personal question?"

Usually when someone starts out like that, he has cause to regret saying "Yes."

"You were a Marine." He nods, suspecting he knows where this is going. "A Chaplain?"

"No. I retired from the Corps as a Gunnery Sergeant before I entered the Seminary."

"That's Agent Gibbs' rank, isn't it." He nods. "Did you know him?"

Donaldson smiles thinly. "The Corps has a lot of Sergeants, and a lot more retired ones."

"Of course."

He glances back to the door to the Sanctuary, aware of the seconds ticking away. "You're _wondering _if I ever killed anyone in combat, and what I would do if we find Mother O'Mallory dead." She doesn't answer. It is hardly a question one would voice to a priest. "The Corps teaches us to kill - very efficiently. The Church teaches us far different things. I've put away my uniform, and I have no desire to put it on again."

"Of course. I'm sorry, Father."

"Not at all."

"I'd - better get back, can't leave the desk unattended, even for…" she glances at the door beyond the priest.

"Yes."

When she's gone, Donaldson reaches for the green stole draped over the hanging chasuble and tries to put his own fears and mounting outrage from his mind. Unlike Ellen, years spent in the Marines have stained his hands with blood and worse, taught him skills he would use had he not sworn other oaths. There is no place in his life for what he would do, and he prays to avoid the temptation that might come if his fears are realized.

Yes, the Corps taught him well, but that is a past life. 'The judgment of this world is for men like Gibbs.'

His duty is to step out into the Sanctuary and offer prayers and hope for his friend, and to bring to the people who wait outside any good news he could bring.

He wishes he had some.

x

He looks at the business card laid beside the sink. As soon as this Service is over he'll be on the phone, not to McGee, his focus is personal, but to his boss, L. Jethro Gibbs.

xxx

"What've you got, Abs?"

She turns, sudden tensing of her shoulders easing when she sees Gibbs. "I'm glad it's you. I adore McGee but his stressing out is driving me crazy."

"Join the team. He's like a junkyard dog today and I'm thinking of bringing him down so you can put him to sleep."

"With pleasure."

"Give me some good news I can bring him."

"I checked Martin Tallman's fingerprints against the plates. His were in the Armed Forces database, Army, Honorable Discharge, yada yada. Visibly they weren't even close, I could tell at a glance they weren't his. I have six fulls and a left palm from the trunk, which is good because now begins the search for whose prints they really are. Plus, there was no _way _Tallman was going to fit into an eleven and a half Adidas."

"What else?"

"Jeez, Gibbs, don't McGee me, I've barely finished my first 'Caf-Pow!'. I found some fibers on Siobhan's blanket, I'll get back to you. I also found a short hair, fine enough it may be a hand-hair but it had no follicle so I have to perform some other tests, talk to me later. All the blood samples you brought me were her type; I'm still waiting on details but the presumptive test was enough unless you really need more."

"Move on."

"Already have, no snoozing in LAbby Central. You already know getting prints off material is a chancy prospect, most material is simply not suitable. Getting a print usually involves photo screening, using a computer program to analyze and then filter out the weave until all you have left is the print but that takes time. However, I did get good prints off her outer and inner doorknobs. Thank God they have that no-upstairs-visitor policy; I've already set IAFIS to exclude Siobhan and Donaldson. When I know, you'll know."

"You sure no one goes up there?"

"Father Donaldson is and I haven't found more than three sets, I'm running that third set as we speak. McGee says he's never been in her bedroom and he's the ultimate Boy Scout so I believe him."

She stifles a laugh at the memory that intrudes, deciding there's little funny in anything about this. "You should've seen him in her apartment over the summer when he dropped me off. Remember? I was hiding from Mikel Mawher, the evening before he blew her place to hell. Siobhan calls us Enkiss, you know, McGee got 'kiss' into his head and he couldn't get out of there fast enough. Those were the days when they were both playing so 'hard to get' that it's a wonder that they ever got got."

'They got got all right', she reflects. 'They're getting _married_.'

"I want you to move a set of prints to the front of the list," Gibbs' voice brings her back to the lab. "Gabriel Leher, one of the cooks from the party. He set off DiNozzo's alarms last evening and got lost on his way to work."

"Lay 'em on me."

"Couldn't get any last evening, no probable cause, but I'll haul him in the instant we find him. Meantime, give it your best shot."

"Will do."

xxx

"DMV computers are down," McGee announces to all shortly after Gibbs' return, his frustration washing over the room. "Paulson never found _anything_! I've been trying to get a make on the 350 since I woke up – actually since last night. I can't get through the system and since it was a holiday the offices were closed yesterday. I'm still trying to slip in now that they're open but their computers are still off-line."

Twenty minutes later Gibbs hangs up his phone, stands and gathers his gear. "Blue E350, Virginia license Alpha Tango Sierra 438, is registered to Susan Blake in Tysons Green off Leesburg Pike, south of Dulles Access."

"How do you know?" McGee tries not to demand this as he looks up from his fruitless search. He has been working all morning to hack the information.

"Did you sleep at _all _last night, McGee?"

He hates to admit it, especially in light of Gibbs' warning about missing clues. "No."

Gibbs would smack the man's head, but this time he'll have mercy. What he'll tell him will hit hard enough. "Something way older than computers, it's called 'paper'. While you were _hacking_, I called DMV and had them pull the forms. Come on."


	13. I'm Praying For You

Chapter Thirteen  
I'm Praying For You

"I left it right here," Susan Blake's brown hair swirls in the frigid wind even under her blue knit hat and she tugs her blue coat tighter as she, Gibbs and McGee stand in her snow covered driveway. No tracks in the parking lot break the smooth carpet of snow, unsurprising as McGee had seen the van in Saint Mary the Virgin Church's lot the night before last. They'd traced the blue E350 Econovan, the supposed 'kidnap car', to this address, but considering the slight-of-hand tricks with Martin Tallman's Windstar they hadn't expected to take anyone into custody here.

"When did you see it last?"

"Well, I came home about three in the afternoon on New Year's Eve and went right to bed. I wanted to be awake at eleven so I could party with my son. He was watching a movie, 'It's a Wonderful Life' and got me up on time.

"None of us knew anything was wrong until yesterday morning. I wanted to drive to the store and pick up some things and it was gone. I called the police but all they did was take a report and say they'll keep an eye out for it."

"MOM!" a child's high voice bursts through the closed window.

"I'm _busy_! Excuse me. I thought you might be the police, but what do Federal Agents want with my car?"

"We think it might have been used in a kidnapping in D.C."

"_Shit_. Who?"

"Reverend Siobhan O'Mallory; she's an Episcopal priest."

Blake shakes her head. "Sorry, I don't know her." Gibbs finds no lie, yet. "Priest, you say? How is a woman a priest?"

"Episcopal." McGee reminds her.

x

"Did you notice anything unusual?" Gibbs asks, hearing in the distressed man's voice McGee doesn't want to get into a long explanation and that suits him just fine. He wants to hold the questions on track. It's bitterly cold and the clock's ticking. "Any strangers in the neighborhood?"

"No."

"So you last saw the van when?" He knows when, wants to be sure she tells the same story again.

"At about three. Our foreman said anyone who wanted to could knock off early. No one turned him down."

No doubt. "What do you do?"

"I'm an electrician. We're putting up a house in Leesburg. Once the frames go up we run the wires before the inner walls are finished. Anyhow, we broke about an hour after lunch, I got home by about three."

"What was in the van?"

"All my tools, I'm out a couple hundred dollars worth. The van's insured, who insures tools?"

Gibbs sympathizes, he's careful about his own tools, particularly the new handmade set the Palmers had brought him from Hawaii. "Anything else?"

Blake shrugs. "Coveralls, my son's CDs, odds and ends, that's about it."

Of all the things, the tools are the most significant. Electrician's tools are just fine to switch license plates and break into a Rectory. That's unproven, however, without any indications that it was or was not an inside job.

"Would you mind if we took DNA samples from you and your son?"

It's obvious she does mind. "Why?"

"If we do find the van, we may find evidence of who used it to kidnap Reverend O'Mallory. We'll need to exclude traces we find of you and your son so we can narrow down to the kidnapper."

"Well … I guess so. It won't hurt, will it?"

McGee already has a swab inside a plastic tube at the ready. "Not a bit."

xxx

"Sir, I have something," Michelle announces as Gibbs and McGee enter the bullpen.

"What is it, Lee – Palmer?"

"I spoke to Gabriel Leher's manager; he told me Leher isn't working. He's suspended from his job for two weeks, the suspension expires on Monday. He was penalized for violating the company's regulations on computer use."

"What violation?"

"He was looking at Internet pornography on his desktop computer."

"And bought a two week's suspension?" DiNozzo asks. "Isn't that extreme?"

"Don't risk it."

"Not me, boss."

"He claims it's an addiction," Michelle continues, "that he's seeing a therapist for it. One thing that was interesting, the boss says that it was all bondage and domination or sadism and masochism, but almost all of the women saved on the hard drive were redheads."

McGee turns on his heel, his hand on the gun at his hip as he starts back to the elevator.

"_HEY_."

McGee turns back in the corridor, surprised at the force of the call. "Yes, boss?"

"Where do you think you're going?"

"To find and bring him in."

"McGee, if I whack you right now you'll be unconscious for a week. You're going down to that _office _with Palmer to bring in that _computer_ and you'll find _evidence_ that links him to O'Mallory. If there is any, DiNozzo, Ziva and I will bring him in and you'll be at your _desk_ while we talk to him. Clear?" When he doesn't answer, Gibbs crosses the room. "CLEAR?"

"It's clear, boss."

"Then get moving."

xxx

Siobhan kneels upon the cement, close to the heating pipe. Kneeling only hurts worse but she does it anyway, on her knees in prayer.

The pipe is scorching. Even at this distance the heat suffuses her. It's hot enough that she dares not touch it, but being close eases a very little of the hurt. She's too hurt to distinguish one pain from the next, and actually grateful for her blurred vision. She doesn't want to see what so many beatings and rapes have done to her body.

Under her gentle touches, cuts and abrasions flare to new pain. Many parts of her body are swollen; she can barely feel her face. Her self-explorations have revealed large areas tacky with dried blood, and what she can distinguish makes her not want to explore further. If imagination is insufficient, she doesn't want to see the reality.

"Have mercy on me, O God, according to your loving-kindness," she whispers, her voice rasping not only from dryness but because of screams she couldn't contain. "In your compassion blot out my offenses. Wash me through and through from my wickedness and cleanse me from my sin. For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me. Against you only have I sinned and done evil in your sight. And so you are justified when you speak and upright in your judgment."

Then she stops. 'No,' she decides, 'that's the wrong prayer.' She chooses another. "Father of mercies and God of all comfort, our only help in time of need: I humbly beseech thee to behold, visit and relieve thy sick servant for whom my prayer is desired. Look upon him with the eyes of thy mercy; comfort him with a sense of thy goodness; preserve him from the temptations of the enemy. In due time restore him to health, and enable him to lead the residue of his life in thy fear, and to thy glory; and grant that finally he may dwell with thee in life everlasting, through Jesus Christ our Lord..."

She hears the door rasp open and turns her head to look behind herself. A brief brightening of the haze indistinctly frames a tall shape, then it seems to vanish and blend into the ambient color. She continues to look up over her shoulder to where he stands, invisible.

"Our Lord Jesus Christ, who offered himself to be sacrificed for us to the Father, and who conferred power on his Church to forgive sins, absolve–"

"Still praying for deliverance?" The voice is surprisingly close, right above her, harsh and mocking. She never had a clue he'd moved. She still doesn't know the guttural voice.

She shakes her head, turns away to face forward because it hurts too much to twist her body. She expects the blow and tries not to flinch. "I'm not praying for myself. I'm praying for you."

"Me?" he sounds surprised.

"You're going to kill me."

"Yes." Just that. No remorse, no hesitation, just 'yes'. "And you're afraid."

She looks back again but won't bother to deny it. "'When calamity comes, the wicked are brought down, but even in death the righteous have a refuge'."

She's barely prepared for the slap that nearly topples her over. She won't give in, choosing another. "'My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever'." He slaps her again, she doesn't flinch. "I'll go on quoting the Good Book for the rest of my life."

"Won't be hard."

x

She remains on her knees, seeing no point in struggling to rise. She turns to face the pipe, not hoping it'll make it harder to slap her stinging cheeks. He'll do far worse than smack her and she can't find him to stop him. "I don't want to die, now more than ever. I have someone I love and he's asked me to marry him."

"You won't make it."

This stings worse than the slaps. "I don't want to die, but if I _have_ to die I know where I'm going. My faith is ever in the Lord, and if I must see him today I'll be content."

"What about your _boy_ friend?"

She won't tell him that. She still doesn't know the harsh, obviously disguised voice. "I'm more concerned about you."

"_Me_?"

"I know where I'll go when my Savior calls me home. I'm only praying my fiancé will find acceptance of His will and not give in to anger or hate," she looks back to where the voice came from, "because he might kill you.

"But with what you've done, where will _you _go? We have all fallen short and it's only by the mercy of God that we have hope. Where will you go when you–?"

His fist comes from her right side; she'd never seen him move. It crashes into her face and knocks her off her knees; her head slams into the cement wall.

x

She's not sure how long she lies on her back, stunned, but when she doesn't pass out from this new pain she fights to recover, to clear her mind. The pain joins so many others she can't tell them apart. Holding her head and face doesn't help. She struggles to turn over, forces herself back to her knees, fights to return to her prayers. Her dry, rasping voice barely reaches above a croaking whisper.

"I can't fight you, can't even _see _you. If I have to die ..." she takes a deep, steadying breath, "'I look for the Lord, my soul doth wait for him, in his word is my trust. My soul fleeth unto the Lord before the morning watch, I sa'–"

His foot to her stomach doubles her over. She clutches herself, her stomach feels like it exploded. Her cry ends in horrible gagging, her face pressed to the cement.

"You never _learn_!" his furious shout reverberates off the cement walls.

She can't answer, can't even breathe. It takes nearly a minute for her to get her breath back under control, to croak over the pain. "What … lesson … should I … learn?"

"_Look_ at yourself."

"You know I _can't_!"

"Naked, bruised, _bloody_, and you still _dare _to get down on your knees before the Lord."

She can't get up, it hurts the same to ease herself down and lay upon the cold cement. She lies still, saves her breath until she can groan "I came into the world naked. I don't _like _to be but if I must go out that way, I accept His will. Bruised and bloody, that's _your_ choice. But where should I be but on my knees to God?"

"On your knees to _God_?" he exclaims, directly above her. She can't distinguish his movement. "You pervert _everything_. You take everything we respect and _twist_ it."

It's so surprising she has to ask "How do I do that?"

"By thinking someone like _you_ could dare to stand before God's altar and claim the priesthood!"

She's not surprised any more. Not only have Priests been viciously persecuted for two millennia, but against that span woman priests have only been admitted into the Episcopal Church for a handful of years. She's had to deal with opposition from closed-minded people almost from the day she'd been Ordained. Even in Saint Mary's today she encounters people who greet her with pleasant smiles and mental daggers - but never like this!

Now she's had _enough_. Her answer comes with greater conviction, if he would only hear.

"'Blessed are _ye_, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.'"

"You're no Prophet."

"I never claimed to be more than I am."

"You're an _abhorrence_ to God."

"Then may God so judge me."

x

Hands clutch her throat, pull her to her feet. She gags for breath, unable to pry the tight hands loose. He slams her against the wall, her head bounces off the cement, stunning her again and her grip on his hands weakens. She's too dazed, too hurt, to fight the strangling hands. "_I'm judging you_!" The hoarse shout reverberates through the room, rings in her ears.

'This is it.' But she's actually surprised she can pull them away enough to gasp; "And your judgment ... is death?"

"No," one hand comes off her throat, closes on her left breast in a crushing grip. She grits her teeth, refuses to scream, digs her nails into his hands. "You're not through with your _punishment_."

By the grips on her throat and breast he pulls her from the wall. He doesn't seem fazed by her nails driven into his flesh as she pries at each hand; he doesn't even sound like he feels it. His grip on her throat eases, allows her to gasp for breath.

"On your knees."

"Not to any man ..." she croaks, "but my Savior alone."

"On your _knees_, 'priest'."

"_No_!"

He squeezes her breast so tightly agony makes her knees buckle, but she doesn't go all the way down. She fights the pain as he squeezes harder, fights her way up; slowly straightens until she can stand upright. She drives her nails into him, blindly kicks as hard as she can, gratified to feel her foot connect.

x

He releases her; she can't evade his fists. The first punch to her mouth staggers her backward. She tries to block punches she can't see. Always he gets past her, his hard fists slam her. The brutal revenge drives her about the room, batters her from one wall to another. She falls to the cement floor, barely conscious.

She feels him pry at her legs again but she's too hurt to stop him. He pins her, his legs force hers apart.

"Blessed Mary, grant your–" The stab is so horrible she has to clamp her hand over her own mouth. She smothers the scream, refuses to give it to him.


	14. Capture

Chapter Fourteen  
Capture

Tim seethes at his desk, tries to keep his emotions in control so he can work. He'd found the others gone when he and Michelle had returned from Leger's job with the confiscated computer.

The first thing he'd done was to copy the hard drive onto his own higher capacity system, then he began exploring. What he'd found fills him with rage.

Palmer had returned to her own desk where she works as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. He suspects she doesn't want to risk an explosion any more than he wants to give her one.

He's about to call her, to ask if she'd made any progress when Ducky Mallard's voice comes over the partition behind him. "How are you, Timothy?" His tone conveys he knows the answer.

"How am I?" McGee demands as he turns around and feels his control drain out, "I'm going _crazy_ is how I am. We don't know what happened to Shav and every second I spend looking is–" He doesn't want to contemplate what could be happening to the woman.

"I understand. These are much too stressful times. If there's anything I can do, I am at your service."

"I don't _want_ you in this!" Tim stops, appalled, "Ducky, I'm _sorry_, I didn't mean it like it sounded."

"No, my boy, I quite understand. I too hope to be nothing more than a distant observer in this drama. What have you found so far?"

Tim fights to rein in his impatience. "No credible hits on our BOLO. Wherever the others are they left me a note. There are dozens of garbage hits, she's been spotted everywhere from Annapolis to North Carolina, all worthless. The church printed reams of 'Missing Person' flyers with two recent pictures, one full length in her cassock and collar from the Christmas Pageant, the other a close-up from the party off our BOLO. Volunteers have plastered their neighborhoods, other churches in the Diocese have done the same.

"Every block in the city probably has a flyer by now. Three of our teams are working on tips, FBI is taking most of the out-of-Staters, Metro's working the in-District ones. I've called so many times they don't even say 'hello' anymore; they just say 'nothing McGee' and hang up."

"Well, you can't–"

x

Whatever he can or cannot do is interrupted by Gibbs, DiNozzo and David entering the bullpen. "Duck?"

"Oh, Jethro, I came to express my concern about–"

"Thanks, Duck. We're picking up Leher. Palmer, get me a warrant."

Michelle turns and looks at Gibbs as though he'd asked her for his personal Genie. Her gaze takes in the darkening Washington skyline. In mid-winter the sun sets early, it's late afternoon and the sky's already dreary. "Sir, the courts–"

"I don't want an argument, Palmer, get me a warrant before I leave here if you have to go to Staples for it, and this is what I want on it–"

"Boss–"

"Don't even ask, McGee."

"I was going to say bring in his computer. Whatever he did at work, he'll've done a lot more of it at home."

Gibbs nods, doesn't say that he'd made that decision long ago. "You've got a problem, McGee."

"Only one?" He bites back the sarcasm, realizing his personal distress will buy only so much latitude and he's probably already maxed it out. "Sorry, what's that?"

"Why would Leher steal a Ford 350 when he's got his own car? Why switch plates with the Windstar?"

"The Lehers drive a Buick, a family car. No way to hide Shav like if she's in the van."

"Barely works, and for time it stinks. Find me another answer."

"I will."

As Gibbs walks out, he hears the man mutter 'if I have to beat it out of him'.

He doesn't turn back.

xxx

Siobhan wishes she could've stayed unconscious. She's so battered by the brutal attacks she can no longer tell one pain from the next. Again searing dry pain, intimate and worse than ever, overwhelms all others. She's grateful she can't see the marks inflicted upon her. Perversely, in his beatings he has spared her eyes, doubtless to drive home the bitter fact that they are useless. She lies on her left side, unable to force herself to move but she can feel, with an indefinable sense, that she's not alone.

She hasn't begged for mercy and won't now, no matter how terrible the pain. "Whatever you're going to do, get it over with."

From before her she hears a sharp click, one that sounds familiar but difficult to identify. Too late she remembers it; it's the same sound as from the igniter used to light the charcoal for incense, a long metal rod attached to a butane–

It clicks again - there's a spot of light in front of her and flame sears her right breast. She shrieks, rolls away clutching her burned flesh. "YOU PERVERTED BASTARD!"

Her rage ignited, she turns back, lost to fury. She struggles to her feet and launches herself at where she thinks he might be, swings her fists wildly, heedless of the danger. She doesn't care if she might hit a wall; so enraged she doesn't feel pain, for the moment driven beyond rational thought, she only wants his body under her fists.

Her fists collide with nothing, but she's too furious to care or to listen for her target. Again and again she swings blindly, hopes for just one touch.

Behind her she barely hears the click and the searing metal runs a tongue of flame down her back. She jumps away, unable to keep from screaming this agony and swings back, missing again. "YOU FUCKING SOULLESS MONSTER!"

Her words echo accusingly and stab her soul. A few days ago no such epithets would ever cross her lips. Terror and pain have drowned under rage as she swings again and again, drives forward, trying to hit _some_thing.

The punch to her face is so devastating she's spun around, crashes to the cement floor and collects an unknowable number of additional bruises. She curls her body, he's on her, forcing her onto her burned back. She flails at the unseen monster getting atop her body. She swings at him but another punch slams into her cheek, drives her head back into the stone-like floor.

Stunned, she can't fight the legs that get between hers, force her open, tear at her. She pushes against him, actually forces him up. A hard fist crashes into her face, her head slams into the cement floor.

x

She doesn't know how long she lies stunned, only that he doesn't rape her while she's nearly unconscious. She can't fight him and the pain too so she stops struggling. She tries to put herself outside her body, to endure what she can't prevent. She lies still, no longer fighting.

"I can't stop you, you fucking _bastard_," she says bitterly. "Go ahead, _prove_ to yourself you're a man."

She clamps her lips shut. She hasn't given him any tears, any satisfaction in the use and abuse of her body. Though the pain is unbearable, her flesh rubbed raw, she will not scream or cry _this_ time either.

In her endurance she will not satisfy him.

She's surprised that he gets off her. She's too battered to wonder why, just feels his legs holding hers apart. She can barely think, barely wonder.

She hears a click, feels his movement between her spread thighs; _realizes too late this isn't more rape_!

Her screech echoes off the cement walls.

xxx

Gibbs stops his car in front of the Leher home, inspection the snow covered one-story building. Tracks in the white carpet lead from front door either to the opening in the ranch style fence or the attached garage. Despite his best efforts, traffic detours delayed him from his customary pace. The sun sits on the horizon, casting almost blinding reflections in the bare wood's white carpeting as he, DiNozzo and David get out. The lot immediately opposite the house is overgrown and undeveloped, trees rather than houses cast their shadows onto the Leher house. Soon January 2 will end, it's almost 40 hours and the grim agents can only hope they're close to rescuing their friend.

They approach cautiously, Ziva goes to the back to cut off escape and Gibbs looks in the front window. Two women; one middle aged, one still in her early teens, sit on the couch and an easy chair watching television. Gibbs signals DiNozzo to keep his Sig in its holster; he intends to bring them all to Headquarters for separate and hopefully revealing interviews.

He bangs on the wood. "Federal Agents - open this door!"

x

Barbara Leher opens the door, obviously surprised at the rude summons. Her eyes dart instantly to DiNozzo, so expressive they can tell she hadn't expected to see him again. "Yes?"

"Mrs. Leher," Gibbs grasps her attention, "we're here to see your husband."

"He's not here," she blocks the door, clutches the wood tightly. "He's at work, he won't be back until six."

"Your husband hasn't been to work since he was suspended on the 23rd." The sledgehammer blow has the effect he'd intended, the papers he produces from his coat are the follow-up punch. "We have warrants for his arrest and to search the house and seize any evidence we find related to the kidnapping of Reverend Siobhan O'Mallory."

It takes no effort to push the door aside.

x

"You're wrong!" Barbara Leher gasps, aghast as she looks up from the damning papers to see the man and woman she'd met yesterday enter and go into their bedroom and den. "Gabe's at work!"

Gibbs barely glances at the appalled girl who stands by the television.

"Your husband was suspended," he tells the woman bluntly, "for collecting internet porn on his office computer. I don't know what he told you and I don't care. I'm only interested in getting Reverend O'Mallory back safely."

"Gabe didn't do anything to her!"

The glare he gives her would make DiNozzo run. "You've no idea what he's capable of." He glances down the hall, sees Ziva enter the back room. "Computer, laundry, everything - and don't forget any sneakers."

She nods, already channeling the same intimidating manner he displays. They could be mild, but they want the pair afraid.

"Agent…"

"Gibbs."

"Agent Gibbs, you've got it all _wrong_."

"Enlighten me."

"My husband is a good man. He goes to church every Sunday, he's on–"

"You have any idea how many sick bastards are described to me as 'good men who go to church every Sunday'?"

"Where are you taking our computer?" the girl demands as DiNozzo comes out of the short hall and sets the plastic wrapped tower onto the carpet by the door.

"Evidence," he tells her succinctly.

"Mom, they can't _do_ this."

"Shut up," she exclaims, turns on Gibbs. "You can't do this! This is insane." Her attention is ripped from the tall man as Ziva comes out of the bathroom carrying a large bag of clothes. Barbara breaks away to try to rip the bag from her. "You put those back!"

Ziva pulls the bag behind her, "Mrs. Leher, if you attempt to interfere you will be arrested for obstructing an investigation and a lawful search and seizure."

"What kind of obstruction will it be if I knock all your teeth down your throat?"

"I do not suggest that you try."

She lunges for the bag. "Those are Gabe's clothes."

Ziva again tugs them out of reach. "That is precisely why we need them."

"Give them back!"

Gabriel Leher steps through the front door and halts when he sees the black coated agents, his computer in a bag and a woman holding his clothes in another bag. He turns and bolts, the grey haired man a second behind him.

x

Leher leaps from his porch, his flight awkward. Gibbs stops at the door, Sig raised, ignores the shrieking pleas of the restrained women behind him as he chooses his target. Streetlights give him enough to see in the winter dark. Leher runs across the plowed street, heads for the white carpeted woods on the opposite side and Gibbs squeezes the trigger.

In front of the fleeing man a branch severs, peppers his face with wood dust. He skids to a halt in the snow.

"_Next one's through the back of your head_!"


	15. Dark Inquisition

Chapter Ten  
Dark Inquisition

Special Agents Kevin Lamb, Janet Levy and Lisa DuBois enter the foyer between St. Mary the Virgin Church and Hamilton Hall, Lamb pushes the door to shut out the darkness and the cold. The Evening Service has already begun in the church to their right. Lights illuminate the stained glass as seen from the darkening street, but from this side the decorative glass is colorless, lifeless.

The agents don't want to attract attention by entering through the main door at the end of the nave's long center aisle but prefer the more discreet side door into the narthex.

They remove their black identifying caps but leave their coats. Janet Levy looks about; her manner telegraphs her feelings to her colleagues. "I don't know these customs," she confesses.

"Well," DuBois asks, "when was the last time you were in a church?"

"The service at the National Cathedral for Bob and the others, and part one of Jimmy and Michelle Palmer's nuptials."

"Do what you did then," DuBois advises.

"What?"

"Whatever we do," Lamb tells her and leads the way to the door.

x

Rev. George Donaldson holds most of his attention where it belongs, on the Evening Prayer's readings and canticles. He can't help but recognize the irony of having over thirty people clustered near the front of the huge church this evening. Though the nave can seat a thousand, he frequently conducts this service, especially in such cold weather as this evening, in the company of the Angels and Saints. 'There's nothing like distress to bring people together.' He knows that though they have come to pray, they're as interested in information as solace.

As he finishes the third Canticle, he sees the back right door open. A man and two women enter and take seats in the distant rear right pew before the dark stained glass windows. Though he doesn't know them, he recognizes their black jackets' embroidered gold badges.

Soon the service is over. Rather than depart into the Sacristy, he steps to the lower step of the Sanctuary where he can speak in more conversational tones to the people close by. His words are carried through the microphone clipped under his chasuble to fill the huge chamber. "We all know what's foremost in our minds this evening. Worry. We all pray for Mother O'Mallory's safe return, and though I have no news to tell you I ask for your help.

"With us tonight are Federal Agents who are working, with many others, to find her. They need your help to do so. After the service concludes, I ask you to go immediately into Hamilton Hall and speak to them. Even if you believe you have nothing to say, even if you think the answers to their questions are too meager to help I promise you they are not. We cannot know how any bit of information may be the key to finding Mother O'Mallory so I ask you to be forthcoming and generous.

"This service is now ended, your service now begins. Go out into the world in peace; cheer the lonely, feed the hungry, visit the sick, pray for those who mourn, the dying, the dead -" his voice catches, he forces his fear aside, "and do all within your power to make this world, God's world, a better place in which to live." He raises his hand to his flock. "And now may the blessing of God the Father, Son and Holy Spirit rest upon you and those you love this night and forever more."

xx

The three Agents, identifying caps again in place, have spread out in the hall and gradually form the centers of three clusters of exchange. For every question they ask they're asked three, but though they must ask for specifics they regret that they can only give vaguery in return.

It's nearly an hour before only four people remain in the hall. "I'm sorry, Father," Lamb sums up their feelings. "I wish I could give you more."

"I won't say I understand, but I'm trying to understand."

"There are teams working this case twenty four hours. We'll make a break."

"Break." His voice takes on tones his congregation rarely hears. "Agent Lamb, now that it's just the four of us here I'll tell you something. I never thought much of NIS or N_C_IS when I was in the Corps and the years haven't changed much. Mother O'Mallory has been Curate in this Parish for two and a half years, and in that time our biggest drama was when the carillon fell through the roof because no one noticed the base had rotted.

"Now I can't fault NCIS for what happened with Charlie Morley; that was our problem before any of you got here. I can't even fault you people for Edward Samson; that went back years into _her _past.

"But I _can and do _fault you for the day Siobhan extended Christian charity to your Forensic Scientist and lost her home when a madman blew it up. I can and do fault you for her being assaulted and nearly raped by a spy posing as Agent McGee. I can and do fault you for her being brainwashed and almost made into a _murderer_!

"I can and do fault you for the injury she suffered when your Forensic Scientist led her into a situation where a psychotic madman put her in the hospital. And whether it's fair or not I _also _fault NCIS for _this _debacle. I don't know what case you people are working that spilled over into her life but this is too _much_."

"What would you have us say, Father?"

"_She's been through enough_!"

"I know she has." Taken collectively, the past seven months make an appalling total. "I'm sure when she took the Chaplain's job–."

"She didn't 'take' it, she was maneuvered into it."

"I can't speak to that, Father, but I'm sure none of us expected any of these things."

Donaldson's anger, having nothing to feed on in the man's sympathetic agreements, collapses.

"I know, son, but the fact still is that she doesn't belong with you. She's a parish priest, not a fighter."

"I wouldn't blame you for talking her out of it. We're only hoping to get her back safely so you _can _convince her to resign."

x

Expressed like that, the words sting Donaldson's conscience. Siobhan had spoken, so many times, more of her accomplishments with these people than, as she put it, her occasional hardships. He doubts there's any argument he could raise with the woman to convince her, stubborn and determined in the best of occasions, to leave.

"Father," Lisa DuBois steps up, "when our team leader Bob DiMarco betrayed us, killed Marti Joswig and so many others, I pretty much lost it. I figured if the man I believed in and trusted with my _life _could do all those things, what good was there? I was this close," she presses her thumb and forefinger together, "to resigning. I went through a period when I didn't trust anybody, _particularly _if they carried this badge. Maybe I needed a shrink, maybe I really do because I _didn't _quit; but Mother O'Mallory helped me in ways a shrink couldn't possibly. A lot of us have similar stories, that's why we're putting in double shifts and bunking in our offices. Whether you believe it or not, for all she's been through, Mother O'Mallory has made a huge difference for a lot of us. One Agent's marriage was saved because she bucked the system and went toe-to-toe even against the Director to help him.

"We're going to get her back, because we're not stopping until she _is _back."

xxx

"McGee, what did you find on that computer?" Gibbs demands as soon as he leads DiNozzo and David back into the bullpen. The man had been working on the office computer confiscated from Leher's company since before they'd left to bring the Leher family in, and he knows McGee will tear the thing's circuits apart to rip the answers out.

When McGee's eyes meet his, he sees the man's ready to tear apart far more than circuits.

x

It takes Tim a moment to push down his outrage and anger far enough to answer. "I found loads of porn in a hidden directory, buried five levels down under the Music directory. The attributes on each file are also set to 'hidden', as if that were going to slow me down. He mustn't think much of his coworkers' computer skills, because I found them in less than five minutes." Disgusted, he tries to distance himself from what's on his screen, to focus on the job and not his longing to choke the bastard to death.

'If Gibbs can't get where he's got Shav in ten minutes,' he thinks, his mind like an erupting volcano, 'I'll rip it out of him!'

He takes a deep breath. 'Focus. They're right. I - we - can't find Shav if Leher doesn't talk _before _I kill him.'

x

"The files haven't been deleted by his bosses because they're evidence in a hearing on his job fitness, but they've been set so he couldn't delete them if he came back on the job before the hearing." He turns back to the monitor and stabs the keys.

"It's mostly S&M and B&D perversions, but his bosses are right – of the stuff that was saved to the hard drive, most of the women were redheads."

Gibbs obviously catches his tone more than the words "You're mad enough to chomp that thing, McGee. What are you leaving out?"

"_This_!" He turns the monitor so Gibbs can see it, then opens another set of files. He rushes through them almost too fast to see details, but the images that flash across the screen are nauseating.

"Are those what they look like?" Tony, looking past Gibbs, cuts in; his voice conveying his disbelief. "That one was Jessica Alba, I could swear I saw Tina Louise, and _that's_ Gillian Anderson."

"They're photo _fakes_, Tony, Photoshop composite images, actresses' faces grafted onto other women's bodies."

Far more had been done to those bodies than grafting heads. The women are tied, some in chains; bloody, bruised, whipped; those who are imaged with men are being raped by them.

"Forget that stuff, get to work on this," Gibbs commands as he picks up from the floor and thumps onto the desk the heavy home computer. McGee stares up at him, unable to believe the audacity. Forget it? He'd rather go down to Interrogation and–

"Like you said," Gibbs continues, as though unaware of McGee's fire, "if he did a little downloading at work, there'll be a truckload here."

McGee immediately apportions part of his hard drive for storing the files from the white tower before it must go down to the Evidence locker. He very carefully keeps his thoughts private.

x

"Meantime," Gibbs clearly sees the man's turmoil and hopes he can work through it, "Ziva's bringing Leher's clothes, including two pair of Adidas, down to Abby. She'll let us know if she finds that either matches that print from the Rectory stairs. Then she'll talk to Barbara Leher in Interrogation One. Palmer?"

"Sir?" She answers promptly. He can tell from her tense posture that she'd been figuratively perched on the edge of her seat and, while they were gone, had probably been utterly quiet for fear of drawing McGee's fire.

"The daughter, Catherine; she's in the Conference Room. First we'll observe the wife's interview, then you take her. She doesn't believe her father could have anything to do with internet porn or any other kind, but you can't live with someone and not know something. Educate her, then dig everything out. McGee, what about the BOLO?"

He has already hooked his computer to the tower and turned the latter on. "Nothing. No credible hits anywhere."

"That means Leher's got her stashed away somewhere. We'll find out. I want you to pull certain pictures for me. DiNozzo, you're with us."

He stops until McGee looks up into the silence and he's certain he has the man's attention. "I don't want to see you down there, understand?" The nod he gets is sharp, but he'll take it, assuring his friend that: "We're going to have our own 'hearing'."

"Boss, I want to take a crack at him."

Gibbs considers what's in the man's head to let him bypass an order just given. This time he won't slap him awake. "No, McGee, you stay up here and crack this, use that doohickey on your desk to sift through Leher's head and tell us where he _put _her. I want you analyzing, not interrogating."

"_Why_?"

Gibbs closes to within a inch of his nose. "Because dead men can't talk."

"You really think I'd kill him?"

He points to McGee's monitor, still connected to Leher's office computer. On it a woman screams; there's a knife held in the foreground and blood drips from a deep gash in her left breast. "I don't know, McGee. You tell me."

xxx

Ziva confronts the trembling woman in Interrogation Two. "When was the last time you and your husband had sex?" She watches fear turn to rage.

"What the hell kind of a question is that?"

"A very easy one, Mrs. Leher. They get harder after this."

"Well, _fuck_ you, it's none of your business!"

"Mrs. Leher, your husband is suspected of kidnapping your parish priest."

"No he isn't."

"Excuse me?" The denial had been unexpected in the intensity of its rejection.

"He didn't do it," she maintains definitely.

"How do you know?"

"I don't have to know, you have to prove it."

That, Ziva admits, is true but she doubts it'll be hard. "Mrs. Leher, when we spoke yesterday you were very distressed that Reverend O'Mallory had been kidnapped. Do you not want to know what might have happened to her?"

"Of course I do," she burns, "but Gabe didn't do anything."

"Our investigation shows that whatever happened to Mother O'Mallory probably happened during the interval between two and two fifteen on New Year's morning."

"So?"

"You told us you were asleep at that time; that your husband had gone out at one a.m., after you went to sleep, to the car repair shop because he said there was a problem with your family's car."

"That's right."

"And that on the morning of the first he had brought it back from the garage just before we arrived."

"Right again."

"The garage was closed for the holiday. There was no work done on your vehicle."

"You're _lying_."

"It was after one in the morning on New Year's Day."

"He went there, then he came home."

"What time was that?"

"One thirty."

"You saw him?"

"Of _course_ I saw him."

"You just told me you were asleep."

It takes Barbara a few moments, then she shakes it off. "No, you're wrong."

"You cannot say if he came home at one thirty, after two thirty or as late as four in the morning."

"He said he came home, he came home!"

x

"Mrs. Leher, Saint Mary the Virgin Church is eleven minutes by the highway from your home."

"I know where it is."

"Your husband had access to the Rectory."

"_Everyone_ has access to the Rectory!"

"Have you been there?"

"Of course I've been there."

"Upstairs too?"

"Of _course_."

"I understand Reverend Donaldson's policy is not to allow visitors to his upstairs living area."

"Well, you _understand_ wrong."

"They are the Reverend's own words." She doesn't have to use any techniques of interrogation, no matter how basic or purile, to identify the lies; all the woman has to do is open her mouth.

"Look, Gabe didn't do anything. He wouldn't. He'd never hurt anyone. But someone else would! Why aren't you hunting them instead of persecuting us?"

"Mrs–"

"Did you know she's _dating_ someone?"

x

Ziva only manages to keep her emotions from her face. It is a moment before she says tonelessly; "I know it."

"Well, why'd he do it?"

"_Mrs. Leher_!" She shuts the words down, manages to bite the anger back, but it has the bitter taste of betrayal that makes it particularly hard to swallow. She's still far from forgiving McGee for turning to O'Mallory and will never forgive that woman ... but that is a battle for another time, another field.

"Mrs. Leher, did you know your husband was suspended from work for downloading fetish pornography onto his office computer?"

"THAT'S A _LIE_!"

"We found extensive files of the same type on the computer confiscated from your home."

"You have _no right_ to invade our computer. That's our private machine. _IF_ it's there which it isn't. There can't be. He doesn't have any porn on the computer. He wouldn't. Our _daughter_ uses that computer."

"I can show you the files."

"No you can't. You faked them. One of _you_ probably put it on."

"And on his office computer?"

"There wasn't any. Why would you say there was? Gabe goes to work every day; he comes home every night right on the dot. He was at work today until your friend tried to _kill_ him!"

"Mrs. Leher, Agent Gibbs did not try to kill your husband."

"Then why'd he _shoot_ at him?"

"To stop him from running, and he was not the target."

Barbara erupts to her feet, shouting; "You don't shoot at a man to stop him from running. No cop does that, I don't know about your '_Federal Agency_'. Why are you trying to destroy our family? What'd we ever do to you? If Gabe ever did that with porn he would lose his job, we could lose our _house_! He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't! He never hurt Mother O'Mallory. He's never hurt _anyone_. Why are you _doing_ this?"

"Mrs. Leher, let us focus on what is important. I have no interest in what happens to your husband's job, and whatever happens in your home has nothing to do with this. We are trying to track down a missing woman and hoping we are not too late."

"But I can't _help _you! It has nothing to do with us!"

"Mrs. Le–"

"_I__T HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH US_!"

x

In the Observation Room Michelle Palmer turns and leaves, not looking at Gibbs. The woman's scream is the final assault upon her patience. Barbara Leher's faith admits nothing into her world view, there will only be excuses and evasions.

Granted devotion and faith are good things in a marriage. She hopes Jimmy would be as faithful. No, she's sure he would be, but that's no help to them in solving the mystery of what happened to O'Mallory before she winds up on Ducky's table. Perhaps the daughter will be more enlightening.

She'll break the daughter. She will. She owes O'Mallory so much; she will not let her down.

Michelle walks down the orange corridor to the elevator, takes it to the third floor, down another corridor, nods to the Agent on duty and unlocks the Conference Room.

Catherine Leher stands up, all her fear in her voice. "What are you doing? Where are my parents?"

"They're speaking to other agents downstairs."

"Why'd that man shoot at my dad?"

"Sit down, Miss Leher."

"Not until you tell me–"

"_SIT DOWN_."

x

The frightened girl crashes into the seat and Palmer struggles to pull her anger back. Barbara Leher's evasions had done nothing but frustrate her. She'd kept glancing at the clock, knowing every second brings this case closer to a bad ending. She hasn't been able to get the priest and all Siobhan had done to help in the weeks before her wedding off her mind, and feels strongly now that she's failing the woman. She tries to push all this aside. This interview is hers, and she _will_ break this girl.

She stands before her so they are nearly knee to knee and gives Catherine her best 'Gibbs glare', her words intended to batter her. "We suspect your father has kidnapped Mother O'Mallory, is holding her somewhere; torturing her for the past two days, probably _raping_ her. We need to find her."

"Dad didn't do anything! He's been at work all day!"

"He's _out_ of work since before Christmas because he's been charged with downloading internet porn of women being tortured and raped. There's a lot more of it in the computer we confiscated, most of it involves redheads like Mother O'Mallory. He had access to her home and no alibi for the time she was kidnapped – _the story he told us was a lie_." Her sharp words silence the girl's protest. "You _know_ this and I want to know what you know _now_."

When she finishes this barrage of accusations, Catherine's face is white, her eyes awash in terror. "I don't know what you–"

Michelle leans over, inches from the girl, letting her rage flood over her. "I don't have _time _for lies; I've heard _enough_ of them. By forty eight hours the chances of finding a missing person drop too far and it's forty three now! This is a _priest _we're talking about, _your_ priest, and a woman. Do you know what it's like for a priest who's _raped_? Think about it. You _know_ what's on that computer!" Catherine tries to turn away. "_Look_ at me." When she doesn't, Michelle comes to within an inch. "_I said LOOK AT ME_!"

When she does, Catherine's eyes swim in fear. "You _know_ what's on that computer."

"_YES_!"

"_Tell me_."

"_PORN_!" The scream into her face nearly staggers Michelle, she grips the arm of the chair to stay close to the crying girl. Gibbs would not draw back, he'd touch noses with the girl if he decided it would be effective enough.

Catherine stares at her wringing hands as tears stream down her cheeks. "I foun - found it a long time ago. I was on the com - computer, just went to 'recent documents' to find a - a report I worked on for homework the night before and I found – I found…"

"You found photos of naked, bleeding women being whipped, beaten, tortured and _raped_." Catherine nods, rubbing her eyes. "Who did you tell?"

"N – no one. I told no one. I – didn't _want_ to believe it."

"You looked." That silent nod. "How many?"

"Hundreds. Thousands. I don't know."

"Videos?" Again the silent admission. "Nothing even protected?"

"No…"

Michelle can afford a moment of softening. "Does your mother know?"

Catherine sniffs, tries to regain control. "She can't even do more than play or record the VCR. Can't even set the record timer without my help."

"So only you and your father use the computer?"

"Yes…" the word is so tiny Michelle nearly misses it.

x

"And when you realized so many of the abused women look like Mother O'Mallory and now she's missing?"

Misery and guilt are washed away by horror. "_NO_! He wouldn't do that. He _likes_ Mother O'Mallory!"

"Really?" This is a new interpretation after Agent DiNozzo's report yesterday. "How _much_ does he like her?"

"He–" realization feeds horror to bursting. "NO! No, you're wrong. You're _wrong_!" Misery devolves into hysteria but Michelle has no more questions.

She straightens up and reaches for her cell phone.

xx

Gibbs watches Barbara Leher being escorted out of I-2, about to leave the Observation Room when his cell phone rings. "Yeah, Gibbs." He pulls open the door. "On my way, Abs." He closes the device and it calls to him again.


	16. Fire

Chapter Sixteen  
Fire

McGee slams his hands down on the desktop and rockets to his feet. His chair slams into the rear partition of his cubicle and dislodges half the shelf before it topples over with a bang.

DiNozzo, the only one in the bullpen, looks up but says nothing, having seen too many movies that detail the fate of men who go up against volcanoes. He's relieved when McGee storms out of the bullpen and down the hall, trailing a thunderhead of fury.

Tony gets up, goes to McGee's desk and starts righting the workstation, wondering how many times he will have to do this. When he catches sight of the image displayed on McGee's monitor screen his blood goes cold and he reaches for the monitor, turns it off. "Don't blame you one bit, Tim," he says into the black screen.

xx

Tim continues down the long corridor to the far stairs and hits the emergency bar, the crash of the door an explosion that reverberates up and down the stairwell. Taking the steps two and three at a time, he launches himself up flight after flight, fueled by fury. He doesn't pause to glance at the private spot by the fire hose where he'd spent so many torrid encounters with Ziva this past summer and fall. He reaches the top landing and shoves the fire door aside, not caring about possible damage to the metal door from the loud collision as he erupts onto the roof.

The frigid night hits him hard, and his hot breath comes in dragon's smoke bursts of steam. Even in a light tweed sport jacket he doesn't feel the cold, because searing fire keeps him hot.

Above, the stars are still, calm sentinels so different in their placidity from the clouds and snow of only two nights ago. He walks through the virgin blanket of four inch thick snow, not even aware of its slippery obstruction as he trudges to the edge of the building and looks out over the expanse of the Navy Yard, too enraged to fear the sheer drop.

He flashes back to the summer, when last he'd stood here, swearing to Heaven his love for Ziva David and determined never to betray her, never to think an affectionate thought about Siobhan O'Mallory.

Perhaps the nearly frozen Anacostia on the other side of the building would be a more calming vista, but for now he doesn't believe it will help. He doesn't need calm; he needs the cold to quell the fire within him. He knows how his tantrum appeared, knows he'll answer for it later, but he doesn't give a damn. People had best wait a long time before they bring up the subject.

People had also better wait a very long time before bringing up what he'd seen on his monitor.

He doesn't even wonder if he turned off the monitor - or minimized the image. All he wants is to rip out Gabriel Leher's black heart with his bare hands!

x

"A fine night for view and contemplation," a cultured voice calls from behind him. He turns, surprised to see Ducky Mallard standing by the door, "though I suspect you're here for neither the view nor for contemplating the mysteries and meaning of life."

"Ducky?" he can hardly help but make it a question. The man blocks the open door, backlit by the lighted staircase. His blue scrubs are hardly suitable attire for the frigid night. He walks back from the edge of the snowy roof. With most of the light below their level, it's only by the stars, half moon and the light behind the Medical Examiner that they can see one another. "What are you doing up here?"

"I followed you, my boy, after our near collision at the elevator." The puffs of steam waft away on arctic breeze that isn't gentle enough.

Guilt stabs at him. How blind had fury made him? And while he's cooling off in his jacket, Ducky must be freezing. "I'm sorry, I didn't even see you."

"I'm not surprised. You seemed particularly distracted."

"I thought you'd be home by now." He tries to divert the conversation, not wanting to think of his now even more shameful display.

"Oh, I would have been; Mr. Palmer has already gone. But Jethro wanted me to perform a psychological autopsy upon our subject this evening. I was just on my way up with it when we had our near encounter."

"I'm sorry."

"You have already said that."

x

He's not going to be able to avoid it. "I don't have any excuse. I must've looked pretty immature."

"Maturity has nothing to do with this. Concern for a loved one does. I think you will find that no one requires an explanation, certainly not those closest to you."

"Thank you."

"At any rate, though I am here tonight, I do not have a body to autopsy–"

"I'll _give_ you one!"

Ducky takes a measured four seconds before responding to this fire. "You're referring to your suspect."

"Ducky, if you could see the _vomit_ that's on those computers you'd know this is a monster that needs killing."

"You have killed before."

x

Ducky's soft tones bring back horrible memories that slam Tim's conscience like a fist. "When I shot John Benedict it was a mistake. I didn't _mean_ to kill him. He was a cop and he was definitely the wrong man. _This_ –" he looks for something to hit, there's nothing but the man in front of him. "I see this sick garbage he collects, the videos–" He can't bring himself to remember the images; but rejecting them only brings them to clarity as keen as a knife's blade.

"Videos?"

"Something called 'Slutload'; faked rapes, worse acting, but he's got a collection that made me want to throw up. The thought of him doing this to _Shav_ ..."

x

This time the pause is more measured while Ducky nearly looks into Tim's soul before speaking. "I do not believe in offering assurances I cannot bring to pass, my boy. And though we both know statistics about kidnap victims beyond the 48th hour, I do have one thing I would bring to you."

McGee would rather punch something. "What?"

"If, God forbid, when you find her – not _if_ but _when_ – she is …. I would ask you to consider what _she_ would want."

"What do you mean?"

"You know Miss O'Mallory for far longer, far better than I ever shall. I do not ask you to consider what the priest would want you to do, but what the woman would want."

McGee turns away, as if he could turn from the situation. For a long time emotions too violent to endure seize his voice. Only slowly can he fight past them.

"You know I won't kill." He can't get through the tightness in that chokes his words.

"Yes, Timothy," Ducky says, closer behind him, his tone the same one Shav would use, patient and drawing.

"You know I _want_ to."

"Again, yes."

x

He whirls back. "Ducky, I'm _scared_. This is – this is _Shav_! I don't know what that bastard did to her or if when we find her she'll be – Gibbs says he can't hurt her anymore but what if he's –?"

"What would Miss O'Mallory tell you to do?"

McGee knows why he phrases it so. She'd been 'Miss O'Mallory' far longer than she's been 'Mother O'Mallory', most of their lives together. There's only one answer to this, but it's hard to give it. Still, it comes from who she is, not who she'd become. "She'd tell me to have faith. Trust. Believe things will work out – or at least accept God's will." He can't unclench his fists.

"But I don't _want_ God's will. I want her safe!"

"As do I, my boy. And at this moment you are the best one qualified to unlock your suspect's secrets and find her."

His body slumps. "You're right."

"At any rate, perhaps we might go inside now?" He rubs his arms. "I haven't a furnace within me that needed cooling."

"I'm sorry."

x

When the door closes behind them the stairwell isn't warm, but at least with the wind cut off it's not frigid. In time warmer air from below will reclaim the stairwell. "I was on my way to give Jethro the results of my psychological autopsy," Ducky says as they descend, not in any hurry. "Would you like them?"

"Of _course_. Any kind of hope I can–. What did you find?"

"I did not have much on which to base my evaluation, which is why it didn't take long. I was on my way in search of more material. I can tell you that you are dealing with a manipulative man who seems quite skilled at hiding the truth from his family but not from his coworkers. He is driven by urges, as are we all, but in his case they overwhelm reason and caution. Giving in to the temptation to view pornography even in the alleged privacy of his office was a mistake which ultimately lead to his downfall."

McGee shakes his head, still marveling at how Leher had been so careless. They continue to descend. "The corporate headquarters maintains the company's computer network. They caught him from Philadelphia during a random check."

"The long arm of the law."

They pass the uppermost floor's landing and Ducky continues his interpretation. "I understand that when he was suspended from his job, he did not reveal the fact to his family. This tells me that he is willing to carry deception as far as he may take it, even beyond reasonable limits, where he risks being found out by his own daring."

"I checked his bank account." Facts and procedures help Tim to push back anxiety and anger - for a moment or two. "He simply used his savings to bring home the usual amount on payday, but there are a lot of other withdrawals I'm tracking."

"Indeed?"

"Every Wednesday evening and Saturday afternoon there are ATM withdrawals of $300. Unlike the other accounts, these are from one in his own name. The bank statements are sent to his office rather than home. They go back for months and they're as regular as clockwork. But ever since he was laid off they've grown sporadic, one every other day or so and always before noon."

"And what does that tell you?"

"He has an expensive vice. And he's been indulging more since his suspension."

"Then your next move is clear," Ducky says as he opens the fire door to the third floor and blessed warmth.

"What?"

"Why, the Detective's credo, my boy; 'Follow the money'."

xxx

"Abs, were Leher's prints on that switched license?" Gibbs asks as he enters the lab.

Abby had stopped questioning Gibbs' late hours long ago, and she wouldn't be surprised if McGee is cracking the whip at the others. She continues staring at the screen before her, trying to contain her own anger at her discovery and sorry it might have found a target. "His prints aren't on file with IAFIS; he's never served, never had a government job and was never busted. F.I.D. is checking the ones you just took, they haven't gotten back to me. They'd better get it fast or I'll–"

"What've you got?"

x

She turns, and the fire in her eyes surprises him. "I examined the shorts your guy was wearing; I hope you weren't too gentle getting him out of them."

He's not about to elaborate. "What've you got?"

The white underwear lies on a tray beside her. Wearing latex gloves, she turns them inside out. "I took swabs from the front and found all sorts of things."

There are some yellow discolorations in the material he has no intention of asking about. One set of stains, however, is ominously familiar.

"Is that blood?" The smears are not long, nor are they many hours old, but they're on the inside.

"Damn _right_."

He's surprised. Normally Abby is the cheeriest person in NCIS, only briefly outclassed during Samantha Sky's tenure. He has the feeling that if she weren't discussing science, her favorite subject, she'd be throwing things. "Talk to me, Abs."

"I found several types of residue, but to make it brief there's seminal fluid, estrogen, testosterone, pyridine, squalene, blood, acetic acid, just the sort of things you'd expect to find if clothes are put back on right after sex. _Except_, normally, the blood."

"Could you identify the woman's?"

"That's in the blood." She turns back to the screen, manipulates the results of the tests with the mouse. Changing graphs replace one another so quickly he can't interpret one before it's gone. "It'll take hours to do a thorough screen of everything, I'm doing a DNA workup with the blood found in the Rectory but the key is the blood in Leher's shorts." She stops at a particular graph, the spikes numbered. "Naturally I'm looking for a match. It'll take hours to get an exact match but it's human, chromosome tests prove it's female and it's AB positive."

"And?"

She whirls on him, her eyes flashing. "You're really going to make me say it, aren't you?" She crosses the room to a table and attacks a plastic evidence bag containing a brown wallet. She yanks the plastic open, rips the wallet out, rifles through the plastic ID slips and displays a Virginia Blood Donor card. "_Siobhan_ is AB Positive. She tried to get me to come to the last blood drive they have three times a year at Saint Mary's but I was too busy but I knew what to look for now."

"AB Positive is significant?"

She throws the wallet back into the bag and clutches it, every muscle tight, eyes clenched. "One hundred thousand – _two_ hundred thousand–"

"What are you doing?"

She glares at him. "I'm counting to a million but I don't have the time." She takes a deep breath and tries to cool her fire. It doesn't look to Gibbs like it's working. "All right, I _know_ you had to ask me that. You have to be sure from a legal point of view whereas I want to rip his testicles off!"

x

Surprise must surrender to astonishment. This, he has to remind himself, is Abby the Kind. The last two days have taken a higher toll on his fellows than he'd thought. This isn't a stranger they're searching for; it's a friend - and more. "Get in line behind McGee."

"He's enough of a gentleman to let a lady go first." She carefully sets down the bag. Her body language tells him she'd slam it down but she's trying to recover her usual calm, or at least restrain herself from throwing things. Fortunately, she manages the latter; the former will take a while longer. "All right, for the _record_: there are dozens of different blood types but the top four are A, B, AB and O. Those account for more than ninety-eight percent of the world's population. O's the most common, AB only shows up in three percent of Caucasians, whereas the rates in Blacks and Asians drop down to about one half of one percent. The point is that if you take one hundred women, three are going to be AB. Split that difference between positive and negative, it works out to one point five out of a hundred, and when I get the detailed analysis, even _without_ DNA, I can narrow it to one out of fifty thousand. With DNA I'll have one in a thousand million; I'll know it's her."

"Narrow it."

"When I do, then can I have him?"

"No."

xxx

Gibbs carries a file folder back to the Interrogation level and reflects on the emotional toll this case it taking. People who can deal objectively with the most heinous crimes committed against strangers feel the stress very differently when it's a friend in danger and they don't know what has happened, or is happening. The fact they have the suspect in custody is meaningless, tension will continue at this tumultuous level until they have the truth - and have their friend safe.

He can't claim to be immune to this stress either. For all he would let his people see, he's human. He doesn't know if O'Mallory is suffering, wounded, alive or dead. He may barely have a working relationship with the woman - never thought she should be here - but she _is _NCIS and he can hope she's alive and he's determined to break Leher to know where she is. But, like the others, he doesn't know if she is alive and will not insult anyone by implying this has no effect upon him either.

Further, there's one nagging question unanswered: why the elaborate switch of the 350 and Windstar plates when Leher's own car wouldn't be particularly noted in the parking lot? Did he have time for such an elaborate ruse? Is he working alone, or is there someone else, someone who did have time and motive to switch the plates? If so, not only is the investigation that much more complicated but having Leher in custody doesn't help O'Mallory.

xx

He reaches I-1, doesn't pause at the Observation Room where he'd assigned Ziva after she'd finished with Barbara Leher but opens the door to the monitored chamber. Seated at the table are DiNozzo and a robed Gabriel Leher. DiNozzo surrenders his seat and walks around the table to stand behind the prisoner.

He doesn't say a word. His job, to keep the pressure on until Gibbs was ready to take over, is done and he moves to stage two, assuming a gargoyle's position behind the apprehensive man.

"Listen, you've got this all wrong," Leher appeals.

Gibbs' expression is merciless. He pulls from the file folder an 8 by 10 color picture of a naked, red haired woman bound to a large wooden 'X'. Ropes from above each bruised breast strangle so tightly her flesh swells like purple-red balloons. The screaming woman's body is covered with livid welts and streams of blood.

x

"You like to hurt women, don't you?"

"What? _No_."

It's the most pathetic attempt at appalled innocence Gibbs has seen in years. He slips another picture out of the unopened folder, sets it beside the first. Cuts and bruises decorate the redheaded woman's body in a map of pain. She's suspended by her wrists from chains, a thick leather whip curls about her chest and her head is thrown back in an eternal scream.

"These are from your home computer, the one your wife and daughter have access to."

"No. You've got it all wrong."

Gibbs has known denials from many guilty suspects, most of whom were better actors. He slides another photo out, one that exceeds description. The violence inflicted upon this redheaded woman is so extreme Gibbs would have thought her likely to wind up on Ducky's table.

"I had my computer man pull out the ones you look at the most. He can do that." He draws a fourth one out, notices DiNozzo glance away as he puts it in line with the others. He sympathizes; he wouldn't look at these if he had a choice.

"You look at these a lot. They're favorites?"

"I can – no, it's not what you think."

"I hope not. Murderers, terrorists, drug dealers, thieves - I can deal with them. The only kind of scum I _can't_ stand are those who abuse women and children."

"I'm not–"

"You were caught at work, that's why you're suspended." He keeps his veneer of calm assurance and watches Leher's apprehension increase. The sadist obviously hadn't thought they'd check on his job. "Your family was very surprised to learn you've been out of work for nearly two weeks." He watches Leher's eyes, looks for the cracks. They aren't hard to find. "It's pretty easy to lie to them, isn't it? A man who does this stuff, he can do just about anything. Your wife says you don't abuse women. Me, I plan to have our medical staff check her."

"I don't do this."

"Let me guess: you like to watch."

"No! Look, I have enough trouble at work, what does this have to do with –?"

Gibbs slides out a photo of Siobhan in her ruby dress, taken at the New Year's party. The photos McGee had pulled were of women who bear the best resemblance to the redheaded priest. He has the satisfaction of watching Leher's face turn sickly white.

"Where is she?"

x

"Hey, wait a minute! You think I had something to do with Mother O'Mallory's – I'd never do _anything_ to hurt her. I admit I download the pictures but–"

"You also told Agent DiNozzo you don't think much of her, or of having her as a priest in your parish. That is, you didn't think much of her as a priest. As a woman, you had some definite opinions."

"So?"

"You said you couldn't do anything about her being a priest but implied it's a mistake you'd correct."

"I'm entitled to my opinion, but that's all it was, an opinion. I didn't think she should've been hired, but I'd never–"

"You also said you took your car in for repairs at nearly two a.m. on New Year's morning. That was pathetic. Didn't you think they'd check?"

He gives Leher a moment to concoct an excuse.

"Two a.m., the time O'Mallory was assaulted by someone who had access to the Rectory."

"I don't have access to the–"

"You were there all evening, at times alone. What'd you do, leave a window unlocked?"

"No. I didn't go back there."

"But you _did_ tell your family you were at work today. Our Forensics Scientist tested your clothes. Want to guess what she found?"

"No."

"Semen, vaginal fluids – and O'Mallory's _blood_."

"NO!" He tries to stand, DiNozzo shoves him back into the chair.

"_Where is she_?"

"I don't know. I'm not–"

Gibbs doesn't allow any feelings to show. He knows that makes him more intimidating. "You assaulted her in her bed, kidnapped her, took her somewhere and raped her. You're living these pictures, living your fantasies."

"No!"

"Where did you take her?"

"I _didn't_."

Gibbs' fist explodes onto the table. "WHERE IS SHE?"

"IT'S NOT HER BLOOD, IT'S DONNA'S!"

x

Gibbs waits a moment for the echo to fade. "Donna?" Leher looks anywhere he can except at Gibbs. "_HEY_!"

"Donna Sessa," Leher says quietly, suddenly very interested in his clutched hands. "I've been seeing her for a couple of months."

"She likes the rough stuff?"

"Yeah."

He pulls out a pad and pen from his jacket, "phone and address."

"You're not going to–"

"_Phone_ and _address_."

xxx

When he returns with DiNozzo and David to the lamp-lit bullpen, having issued orders to have Leher placed in a Holding cell until his story can be corroborated, whatever he's about to say is cut off. Abby bursts from the stairwell door, her long white coat trails like a cape behind her. "Gibbs Gibbs Gibbs Gibbs Gibbs! I found it!" She'd started her staccato announcement at the door; her dash allows her to complete it within the bullpen.

"The blood test? You blew it."

"Sorry Gibbs, I know now, I goofed, but three percent is three percent."

"What about the prints from the plate?"

"They weren't Leher's either, but I got a match."

"What did you find?" He wonders how many 'Caf-Pow!'s she's inhaled.

"Fingerprints – _the_ fingerprints. I've been testing things as quickly as they come in, putting everything through IAFIS but you know how long a match can take. I made the range wider and wider when I wasn't getting a hit, but I finally did. They even matched the license plates from Tallman's car. They were also on the light bulb in Siobhan's lamp; he'd twisted it loose enough so it wouldn't come on." She whirls about. "McGee, put LAbby Comp Two on the plasma."

It takes only seconds of rapid typing and the wide screen flares to life. On it are full face and profile MPDC booking photos, the placard held before the man reveals his name, though none of them need it.

It is Charles Morley, former gardener of St. Mary's Church.

x

McGee leaps to his feet. "_He's in prison_!" His outrage echoes through the division.

Morley had been convicted before Christmas and now serves two consecutive life sentences for the rape / torture / murders of two women.

"How the _Hell_ did that _Bastard_ get into O'Mallory's room?"

"I'm afraid I can answer that, Gibbs," a male voice answers from outside the bullpen. The agents turn to find FBI Agent Tobias Fornell standing beside a shorter Asian woman. Her plastic ID tag indicates she's also FBI. "I'm sorry to admit it's our fault."


	17. The Trail Heats

Chapter Seventeen  
The Trail Heats

"What do you mean it's your fault?" Gibbs demands of his FBI counterpart, Senior Agent Tobias Fornell.

Fornell looks across the dim, lamp-lighted bullpen at each of the agents in turn, then the slight Asian woman at his side before answering him. "Conference?"

"You know the way." As he starts out of the bullpen, he sees McGee come from behind his desk. "Stay put, McGee."

"_Boss_–"

"No," Fornell's counter surprises everyone, "he should come, and this has gotten far beyond our usual conference room. I need to meet with your Director, explain everything only once."

x

Normally Gibbs would explode if anyone dared to overrule him in front of his team, but this time he doesn't. He decides Fornell is right. It's late evening, over 40 hours since O'Mallory's kidnap, the situation has gone too far to waste any time and he wants his answers without delay.

He especially wants to know how a convicted, sentenced murderer held in Maximum Security Penitentiary Lee, the strongest prison in this part of the country, could kidnap O'Mallory three weeks after being locked behind steel bars.

xxx

Siobhan opens her eyes, thinking she hears music. Dazed, half conscious, it takes a moment for her to realize the notes play only in her own mind.

She's sure she's delirious from the beatings, thirst, starvation and more rapes than she can count. Every inch of her body hurts so much she doesn't want to move. Just the thought of moving her arm from the uncomfortable position it'd fallen into over her head is more than she can endure. She hasn't slept since this ordeal began. She's gone through insensate stages when she'd fainted or been beaten unconscious, but she hasn't had the renewing rest that comes from true sleep.

She tries to hold onto, to give herself over to, the notes that awakened her, that come from some ethereal part of her battered mind. She seeks solace in them from the torture she must endure when her captor returns - if he isn't here already.

She tries to lick swollen lips with dry tongue, barely managing after several tries to get any moisture at all. But though her flattened voice cracks as she tries to force the words. She won't give in, not to her captor, not to her pain, not to the Adversary himself.

She holds onto the music playing in her head. She doesn't care if she's delirious or worse, only that, for the moment, he's not hitting her.

"Everybody needs a little help sometime," she sings quietly, her voice cracking and flat, determinedly fighting pain in her throat that argues with every breath. "No one stands alone. Makes no difference if you're just a child like me, or a king upon a throne." Her breath rasps in her throat, her whisper flat and lifeless, but she pushes through. If she's going to die - whether from the beatings and assaults or from thirst and starvation - she'll die with praises to God upon her parched lips. "For there are no exceptions, we all stand in the light. Everybody needs a friend, let me tell you of mine." It hurts to breathe, daring to take a deeper breath stabs pain into her ribs but she forces herself to hold to the music in her mind, no matter how broken it comes through raw throat and cracked lips.

"He's my Forever Friend, my leave-me-never friend. From darkest night to rainbow's end, he's my Forever Friend. Even when I–"

Agony blasts her stomach as a hard foot slams down onto her. She doubles over with a retching cry. A hand twists about her red hair and drags her to her feet, lifting her bodily. Even through this intense pain she can't release her stomach to help herself. His fist slams into her face, her head hits the wall–

xxx

Jennifer Shepherd arrives at her office moments before Gibbs, McGee and the FBI agents and she feels the tsunami of anger they bring with them. "Agent Fornell, I'm sorry to see you again," she says as she pulls off her coat.

"I'm sorry too. You got the call from my Director?"

'The call' had come in when she was halfway home. She doesn't tell them that or reveal any of her thoughts. The tension already stuffing the room is suffocating.

She knows the rest of Gibbs' team is tracking down this new development, she'd gotten that on her way in. She's particularly interested in details.

"Let's all sit down and keep things civil" She keeps her gaze on McGee, whose face reflects tightly contained fury. They gather about her low, twin spotlighted coffee table rather than the desk; she hopes the less formal setting will help to keep things 'civil'. Shepherd sits at the head of the table, Gibbs at her right beside McGee, Fornell at her left with the Hawaiian woman beside him.

They'd been introduced months ago to Maya Akana. The petite woman had been part of the conflicting team of agents who had staked out DiNozzo and David while _they _staked out the Barclay Hotel in the guise of Canadian assassins. Tim tries to maintain enough enforced calm to at least acknowledge the silent woman seated opposite him, but his attention is locked on her boss.

"All right," Shepherd directs, "let's have it."

"After Charles Morley was sentenced to two consecutive life terms plus twenty five," Fornell begins the recap, "he didn't drop off the Agency's radar."

Gibbs can tell that though Fornell will give his usual concise and accurate briefing, he doesn't want to. He's embarrassed, and angry about having to be embarrassed. He presents a man who's stepped in something particularly loathsome and can't scrape it off.

Gibbs doesn't care. He's certain McGee doesn't.

"We haven't been able to find out what happened to his alleged first victim, Christa Alvarez." Fornell continues. "We had him moved to the Hoover building and kept at him for days without a break. Morley finally wore down and said he would show us where he hid the body in exchange for a reduction in his sentence. I wouldn't have taken this, but I was out of the loop."

The agents know that excuses are not Fornell's way; but he's obviously inherited a crappy problem and must clean it up as well as he might.

"The spot was about 180 miles west, between New Milton and Weston, West Virginia, in the bottom of a ravine. Naturally he couldn't just tell us, he had to show us. The Agency sent two agents out overnight on what turned out to be a wild goose chase. When they got there, there was no grave, no evidence at all. Morley made the whole thing up, but he put up a pretty good show. He had a fit when the spot he took them to didn't match his memory. He demanded to stay and search."

Gibbs can barely contain his aggravation; it's only a sharp glare from Shepherd that keeps him from interrupting. He wants to slap whoever decided to send a team of two with this monster on an overnight trip.

"The team leader decided, partway back, that they would stop at a motel. Morley got cuffed to a bed but through the night he complained about a bladder problem; finally they let him use the can. He went out the window and by the time the agents realized he was missing he'd hot wired their car and was gone."

x

Gibbs launches himself out of his seat, around the table past McGee and into the middle of the room, far out of reach, too angry to speak. It takes a long moment for him to turn on them. "I don't _believe_ this! YOU LET HIM WALK OUT?"

"I know you're angry–"

He comes back to Fornell, who stands to meet the charge, everyone else on their feet about the table. "_Angry_? I passed ANGRY before we got up here. Your idiot put a murderer on the street and _he went right after the woman who was his main victim in the first place_. Why didn't we get an alert? We'd've seen this coming and _protected_ her! Instead she walked right into a trap and is probably _dead_!"

"The alert was intra-departmental. My bosses didn't want to announce outside of the FBI that Morley was free."

"She's _NCIS_."

"We dropped the ball on that. I wasn't in on it but I should have been. I'd have seen he'd go after her, but if you want to take a swing at me I'll understand. The lead agent never thought he'd come into the District and make a play for her. It's only after yesterday's BOLO went out that I got handed the case."

"This imbecile, I want his _ass_."

"I've already kicked it, as well as the partner and the guy who made it a team of two."

McGee comes around the table and the silent woman, interjects himself between the men. "Forget his ass, I want the _rest_ of him."

"That will be all, Agent McGee." Shepherd commands from the head of the table. She'd been waiting for him to step over the line, had actually been impressed that it took her this long. "Dismissed."

"Director -" his protest cuts between Gibbs and Fornell to the woman.

"I _said_ 'dismissed'."

"I understand how you feel, Agent McGee," Fornell says, "which is why I wanted you to hear the facts for yourself."

"Five minutes with him, that's _all_ I'm asking."

"OUT, McGee!"

But Fornell's answer is: "You've got it."

He steps around Gibbs, past McGee to Akana and unclips the ID tag from her vest. "You're suspended pending Departmental Hearing." He turns to the surprised agents. "She's all yours, Special Agent McGee."

Humiliated at being sentenced here and now, in front of fiery near-strangers, Maya Akana stares up at her boss, then McGee, fear eloquent upon her face. McGee tops her by a foot and even if the others stopped him before he got too many blows in, she doubts she can defend herself against his fury, his greater reach and strength.

McGee feels trapped by his own emotions. He'd wanted five minutes to 'express himself', but against this small woman? Everything he'd imagined doing to the imbecile who'd caused this must now be focused on a woman whose head barely reaches his chest? He tries to imagine raising his hand - and stalks past her to the door.

xxx

Siobhan's eyes are crusty from unshed tears; she must endure the agony of lifting her hands enough to pry her lids open with her fingers, force them open to the same fleshy blur. Every breath, every movement hurts. Her universe has become a nearly silent, fleshy cloud of pain.

She's far from the heating pipe, chilled to the bone, but even the chill does nothing to numb the pain.

His main targets through all the beatings, unsurprisingly, had been her breasts, stomach and crotch, but he hasn't spared her face, back and legs. He's spared nothing. She can't even tell one pain from the next, her body feels like one mass of battered agony. The pain deep in her crotch is the worst; even when she lays still it stabs at her. She doesn't want to move. How many times has he raped her? She isn't sure anymore.

The rape after he'd burned her with the candle lighter was particularly horrible. He'd burnt her left breast, her back - and then her labia!

He's beaten her before and after every rape, every time he'd sodomized her, even when she'd given in and begged for water and he's shoved that disgusting thing into her mouth, holding her hair clenched in his fist while he'd made her-

The beatings, he'd beaten her unconscious so many times she doubts she'll know anything else but agony for the short balance of her life. Her body's sticky with smeared, dried rivulets of blood from wounds she doesn't want to find. Useless as her eyes are, she's grateful she can't see what's been done to her. Imagination is terrible enough.

"No-" she breathes, her voice rasping in her parched throat. She can't remember the last time she's had any water. What day is it? "No," she whispers again. "Do you hear me? _No_. You can beat me, you can rape me; you can do whatever the hell you _want_ to me because I can't see you and I can't fight you, but you _won't _break me."

x

She struggles to sit up, groaning, unable to silence the agony that flares through her. She wants to lay still, it's the only time the pain is endurable but she won't give in. 'I won't lie here like a beaten dog. You want to kill me, you'll kill me on my feet like a human being.' "You can beat me, but you will not _break_ me!"

She fights the pain, blesses herself, her movements slow and careful as she fights past the agony. Though it hurts even to whisper, she won't be prevented from this, not if what she fears is true.

When every chance to pray may be her last, she will not lose the opportunity. If she must die, she will die pure in soul with a prayer on her lips.

She can barely endure the agony of forcing herself to her knees. Her right knee flares and almost tumbles her over. She catches herself on her hands, has to struggle to push herself upright again. She fights to stay balanced, her flailing hand hits a wall. She leans against it, lets it hold her upright.

"Most merciful God," she whispers. Her voice cracks over sandy, parched throat but she's determined not to stop. "I confess that I have sinned against you in thought, word and deed, by what I have done, and by what I have left undone." She tries to lean better against the wall, but even this slight adjustment stabs agony through every muscle. She fights the tears that well up in her eyes. Not only won't she give the monster, if he is here, the satisfaction of making her cry but she doesn't have the msture to spare. "I have not loved you with my whole heart; I have not loved my neighbors as myself." She tries to find a better position and clamps her hand over her mouth to hold in the scream. She holds her breath until the agony drops from torturous to horrible.

"I am truly sorry and I humbly repent. For the sake of your Son Jesus Christ, have mercy on me and forgive me; that I may delight in your will, and walk in your ways, to the glory of your Name. Amen."

She tries again to shift on her knees, to find a position that doesn't hurt as much. There is none. Even using the wall for support, despite her efforts the agony rips tears from her that trickle down her cheeks. She scrubs them from her face, angry and frustrated. "No! I won't cry. You are not going to make me _cry_!"

x

She fights until she can regain her control. Exhaustion and pain have stolen so much control.

"'Again, I tell you'," she whispers, the voice quivering, her body trembling. She's so hungry, but the thought only adds another torment. "'Again, I tell you that if two of you on earth agree about anything you ask for, it will be done for you by my Father in heaven; for where two or three come together in my name, there am I with them'."

She clings to the wall, having nothing to hold except the roughness under her palms, and then begins the passages of Evening Prayer. Having no idea of the time, she decides it might as well be evening.

"'Yours is the day, O God, yours is also the night; you established the moon and the sun. You fixed all the boundaries of the Earth, you made both summer and winter. I will bless the Lord who gives me counsel; my heart teaches me, night after night. I have set the Lord always before me; because he is at my right hand I shall not fall'." She shifts her weight on her knees, an explosion of pain makes her cry out and she almost falls.

It takes a long time before she can gasp: "'Seek him who made the Pleiades and Orion and turns deep darkness into morning, and darkens the sky into night; who calls for the waters of the sea and pours them out upon the surface of the Earth: The Lord is his name'."

She can barely stand it, it would be as easy, and hurt just as much, to lay down. She will speak to God on her knees. "'If I say 'Surely the darkness will cover me, and the light around me turn to night', darkness is not dark to you, O Lord. The night is as bright as the day, darkness and light to you are both al–'"

"How do you do that?"

She jumps at the voice, gasps as her heart is seized in cold terror, but she doesn't look for the source.

x

"Do what?" she rasps, sore throat the least of her pains.

"You have no book, can't see it even if you had one, and I don't think you missed a word."

"It's _because_ my eyes are like this," she says, barely able to stand the strangeness of speaking, of having a _conversation_, with her tormentor. "The Bible, the Book of Common Prayer, the Book of Occasional Services, I've memorized them all. I knew the time might come when I get so bad that glasses won't help anymore and I might actually go blind."

"Aren't you relieved you'll never see that day?" he asks, his voice behind her.

The words stab her. "Is that supposed to be funny?" she croaks.

"I suppose not." His voice is directly in front of her. Her blurred vision prevents her from seeing the face inches before her but no longer has to.

"I know who you are."

"You do?" his tone mocks her.

"Yes." The word cracks.

"How?"

"You said I pervert everything. You've been saying that for months."

"Years." She can virtually hear the mocking smile. "Smart pussy."

That too stings. She can't remember anyone else ever treating her with such contempt. How could she not have known him, even if she'd believed he's in jail? "How did you get out?"

"I had unfinished business, they let me go."

She's not surprised to get the lie. She can't find the skeleton on the floor, but she hardly needs to. "That's Christa Alvarez, isn't she?"

"What's left of the bitch."

She flinches, can't endure the dismissal. She slowly pushes herself off the cement floor, fights the pain, doesn't want to look up at the monster. If anything, she'll face him directly, whether she can see him or not. If he's not punching and kicking her, she'll face him. She has to balance herself against the wall, but turns to that voice. "Why?"

"Why not?"

"No!" In her anger she gets enough moisture into her arid throat to force out the words. "No, you don't get to do that. You _answer_ me. I know you don't like women at the altar, that we shouldn't be priests, that things should go back to the 'good old days' but Christa never did _anything_ to you! Tina never did anything to you. Christina never did anything to you. Neither, for that matter, did I."

"Do you know," he asks from her right; he moved while she was addressing empty air, "that by this point that bitch was on her knees _begging_ for mercy?"

"You could have shown it. You didn't _have_ to kill her. She was a–"

"Slut who got what she deserved."

"_She was a good and virtuous woman_, with her whole life before her. So was Tina. So was Chris–"

x

The fist in her stomach doubles her over; the kick slams her into the cement wall. She leans against it, tries to cling to the flat surface, tries not to fall, gasps for breath against these new pains. "This … make you feel … like a man? To beat a helpless–" a powerful impact to her face slams her down to the cement floor.

"_Shut up_!" The shout reverberates through the chamber.

She shakes her head, tastes blood in her mouth. "_No_." She forces herself to turn over, fight the pain and sit up. "No matter what you do to me I will not–" hands clamp about her throat, stop her breath. Gagging, she reaches out - her hands find his face and she rakes her nails down it. The hands release her and he backs away, roaring in pain.

She fights her way to her feet, back against the wall, grateful to finally have a target. "See how _you_ like it!"

She launches herself at the sounds, slams into him. They go down in a tangle of arms and legs. Siobhan claws at him; flesh presses against her mouth and she bites as hard as she can, gratified at his yell. His fist slams into the side of her head but she doesn't let go. She digs her nails into him. Timmy taught her that when she has to fight to mark her opponent so the evidence would speak even beyond her ability to do so, even beyond the grave. She claws at him, biting harder as they tumble on the cement.

A hand in her hair pulls hard; the effort allows him to drag his flesh from between her teeth. She's forced onto her back. He's above her, hits her again and again. She's restrained by the grip in her hair as he beats her.

x

When he finally releases her she feels the movement of his body; he's getting to his feet and she struggles to get up as well. She feels blood trickling down her face, won't brush it away. She turns over, determined to keep fighting, makes it to her hands and knees and a hard kick crashes into her ribs. She slams down onto her back.

Pain explodes in her right hand - a foot slammed down and her wrist bends unnaturally; something inside gives way. She shrieks, tries to clutch her wrist under the heavy foot. She can't reach it, but she's certain he broke it!

x

His knee crashes down upon her crotch, grinds into her and his fists get past her arms, punch her over and over.

She clamps back a scream, clutches her right hand to her body, can't even try to protect herself. It's as though all her pains have centered in her wrist. She feels him get off her, a hard kick slams her legs apart. She tries to keep him off, an explosion of pain in her wrist stops her. She can't stop him from coming down onto her body, and prays to lose consciousness before he can–

The stab rips at her. She clamps her bleeding lips together, refuses to scream!


	18. SART

Chapter Eighteen  
SART

"All right," Gibbs calls sharply as he enters the bullpen, "you already know it's Morley, get on all the contacts you have. Is the BOLO updated?" He has no doubt that was the first thing done.

"Done and gone," Tim announces, his tone conveying how little he thinks this is.

"All radio and television stations are covered," Michelle assures them.

"They found the FBI car he stole, with the GPS disabled, in Tysons Green half a block from where he stole the 350. He knew it would be reported in the morning so he switched, came into the city in the 350. DiNozzo –"

"Scanning ATM and bank records for any activity on his account."

"His cell phone is still activated with the company, but it's a pay-per-quarter." Ziva says, "No activity since he was arrested in the summer."

"His car was impounded by the FBI," Palmer reports, "it's still listed as being in lock-up."

"So is _he_."

"That Ford Econovan, the one with the Windstar's plates–" Ziva begins.

"He stole the 350 but knew it'd be reported just like the other car," Michelle cuts her off, "so when he passed the Windstar sitting in a driveway he switched the plates, then drove to the church."

"There were a load of cars in the lot during the party," DiNozzo interjects, "what's one more? Even McGee didn't wonder why it was there at two in the morning, four cars instead of three meant nothing."

"But Tim locked the gate on his way out," Michelle challenges. "How did Morley get the 350 with O'Mallory out if her gate key was still in her coat on the hook?"

"He had full access to the Church for five years," McGee says, annoyed at being talked around. "Even though all his stuff was confiscated he might have had duplicate keys, maybe even hid them somewhere before he was arrested."

"Check who he paled around with in those days, who might be sick enough to smuggle him in. I think we've already got the sick accomplice in holding."

"You still think he's in it?" Tim asks hopefully. If they can break Leher's story –.

"Don't you?" He picks up the phone. "I'm calling Father Donaldson, find out what he can tell us."

"I spoke to him," McGee counters, "he said he would try to find out who might have been close to Morley and get back to me."

"If he doesn't call back in fifteen minutes–"

"I gave him ten."

"Good man."

x

"Morley's house where he did his killings went to foreclosure." DiNozzo reports. "He'd missed several payments even before he was arrested this summer. The bank foreclosed, put it up for sale. It was sold a couple of weeks ago to a Julio Mendoza and a family of three. I called, got no answer. I'm on my way out to see him."

"Everyone, gear up." This is the best chance they have. Maybe Morley took her to his torture chamber, maybe did something to the Mendozas.

But they never have the chance. Before they can collect guns and equipment McGee's phone rings. The conversation is short, and when he hangs up he's galvanized. No, more like a warp engine on overload. "Georgetown Mall Security has our 350 entering the parking lot a few minutes ago," he pulls his gun and ID from his desk. "All the stores are closed since ten; the van's in the far back corner."

"Call them back on your cell. Observe, follow if necessary, do _not_ engage. McGee, you're with me. DiNozzo, your car with David and Palmer."

In the garage Gibbs' blue Dodge's tires shriek before catching. It blasts through the portal as from a cannon's muzzle. DiNozzo's car launches outward less than a second later.

xxx

Georgetown Mall is vacant and smothered in night when they roll in quietly, no direction needed from Security to find a single blue van at the far corner. There are a few light towers, barely enough of them to stave off the gloom. Both cars coast to a stop, headlights off, one fore, the other aft of the rocking vehicle. When the agents open their doors they hear muffled cries emerge from it in time to the rocking.

No directions are needed. The agents form a semicircle about the side door, weapons trained and balanced on flashes ready to unleash their light. Gibbs grabs McGee's shoulder, his voice low. "If he's not armed and you fire, you're _done_. Clear?"

"Crystal."

A plaintive cry, again muffled, punctuates a violent lunge of the van. Gibbs grabs the door; his yank slams it against the side wall. Flashlights click on, yelled commands cut through the night.

A shriek muffled by cloth erupts from inside. A naked man kneels behind an unclothed woman. She's on her knees, bent low, her hips joined to his, her hands taped before her.

Gibbs reaches in, grabs the man's long black hair, braces his foot on the van and yanks. The force throws their target into a roll six feet from the van.

Ziva and Michelle climb into the vehicle; their bodies block the sight of the sobbing woman. The man looks up, finds three men towering over him, black guns pointed at his face. "I give man – I give! Don't shoot. God, I give!"

Gibbs glances back to his agents inside the van, sees Michelle pull the door closed. "Send for a SART," he commands before it is shut.

x

The van's interior has cooled from the blast of freezing air admitted from outside. Ziva uses her knife to cut the masking tape that holds the blonde woman's hands before her. In the light of an elevated lot lamp seeping in through the windshield and front seat windows they can see she's less than twenty years old. Michelle pulls off her own black coat, uses it to drape the girl's naked body, then pulls the gag from her mouth.

"Thank you thank you!" she cries over and over again, unbroken exclamations over her tears.

"I shall call the SART," Ziva says, her voice strong enough to break through the sobbing gratitude. The two agents exchange silent glances. The Sexual Assault Response Team will be able to help the devastated girl, but it's not Morley in the ground outside. Is the man outside with the others an accomplice, or has this situation taken a perverted turn?

x

Outside, the three agents are disgusted by the begging man under their guns. He hasn't stopped pleading since landing on the frozen pavement. About thirty, he's big enough to overpower a smaller woman and overdue for a haircut and some manhood. Gibbs decides he has an equal option and hauls him off the icy pavement by the longer hair. He presses his Sig between the terrified man's nostrils.

Tony and Tim, finding the nose full, step to either side of Gibbs and insert their guns into each of the coward's ears.

"I'm going to ask you once. Where are Charley Morley and Siobhan O'Mallory?"

The man, if that word can be stretched to include the naked animal, seems amazed by the question. "What? Who?"

"Charlie Morley and the priest he kidnapped!"

"Man, I donno wha' you're talkin' about!"

Gibbs decides the pervert's too scared to lie. He glances at McGee long enough to see a murderous rage building. He knows the shivering pervert sees it too. "Where'd you get the van?"

"The van? I found it."

Gibbs pulls the Sig's hammer back, unnecessary with an automatic but the click is oh-so-effective.

"I mean it man I found it I swear I was walkin' and it was sittin' there, keys in the ignition I didn' know it was yours!"

"You just figured," DiNozzo says, "that it was good for picking up chicks."

"Yeah."

"To rape them."

"NO."

"Who is she?"

"I donno!"

"You found her on the street and decided to rape her?"

"It was – it was her idea!"

Gibbs takes a half step back, not moving the gun from under the man's nose but so the spatter won't mess his clothes.

"Man I'm sorry I didn't know she was yours I mean I didn't you gotta believe me I don' know her I don' know the van I don' know nothin'!"

"Where'd you find the van?"

"I don' know!" He's shivering as much from fear as the frigid night.

Gibbs raises the gun to an inch from the man's left eye, making him stare down the barrel of the cannon. "Three…two…"

"Ninth and New York Ninth and New York I _swear_ it!"

That's near the church. "McGee, call Metro. Tell them we've got one on ice."

The naked man gapes at them as McGee pulls the gun from the his right ear. "You mean you're not gonna pop me?"

Gibbs eases the hammer down. "No."

"Okay. Well, okay. Look, can I have my clothes then? It's _freezin__'_."

"No. Maybe someone in lockup will like you."

xxx

When MPDC and SART have come and gone, taking charge of Curtis White and Mary Hall, who had been returning home from a movie when the van had pulled up beside her and she'd been dragged in, it's after one o'clock. All that remains is to impound the van for forensic testing.

Since it had been used in two crimes, there had been considerable debate about jurisdiction. It was agreed that jurisdiction and investigation would be shared, and the van placed in NCIS' custody because it was evidence in an ongoing case, where this second kidnapping and rape had been concluded. There's still a chance it will provide a clue to the location of the primary quarry.

Gibbs' phone rings, he answers it with his usual brevity. The message is nearly as short. "Get some rest, conference in MTAC 0730." He closes the phone. "Kelman and her team checked out Mendoza's place; nothing. Morley didn't take her back there. Go home, get some sleep," Gibbs tells the four agents, none of whom will admit to how spent they are.

"NO! We _can't_ stop!"

"No one is stopping, McGee, there are _four _teams working this twenty-four hours. Get some sleep so you can work in the morning."

McGee's best hope had been that Morley had taken her to his old place. He'd been about to lead the charge back there. "Boss, I can't. I have to _find _her!"

"We should check out where White found the van," Tony protests, feeling he should back his partner. Normally he'd never imagine backing the Probie over Gibbs, but McGee looks on the verge of losing it.

It's 47 hours since O'Mallory was attacked, it's now January 3rd and the man hasn't slept since last year.

"Has everyone _lost _it tonight?" Gibbs demands, restrains his reprimand to voice only. He can barely believe this unified front of defiance, but he can read the exhaustion on their faces, particularly McGee's, for all the driven man would deny it. "Phillips and his team are on their way there now, Kelman's team is off now because they've put in the same hours _we _did, Lamb's team came on at triple oh one. Go home and get to bed. If you're lucky you'll get four hours, I need _you _four awake and alert in six."

xxx

Siobhan's not sure he's gone, she lost track of him after this last rape, when horrible pain didn't make her faint but left her laying on her back, unable to move, unable to flee into oblivion. She wants to cry but the pain is too much even for that small relief. She refuses to cry. She will not allow him the pleasure of driving her to tears.

The worst pain now is in her right wrist. She's not sure what he'd done when he stamped on it and bent it so unnaturally. She's afraid he broke it. She also doesn't believe she'll live long enough for it to matter.

He'd left this time, opening and closing the door and she'd lain here too battered to move. A moment later the door had opened again and she'd tensed, too hurt even to cringe as he'd stepped up to her. She heard a soft crinkling and then something cold and wet was put down beside her left rib. He'd gone again, closing the door hard.

Carefully moving her left hand, she reached down and felt cold, damp plastic. Getting her hand around the bottle, she has to turn onto her le t side, itself an agonizing venture, but she brings the cold plastic to her lips with trembling hand.

The cold water - she thinks it's water but no longer cares - is a blessing but as she lets the first few drops past her lips she won't thank Morley. 'Were my screams not what you hoped for?'

She carefully lets the liquid trickle, slowly moisturizing her dry mouth. She resists the urge to gulp, knowing she'd choke and that she'd long for death long before she recovered. Cautiously she lets drop after drop refresh her, her lips, mouth and throat, feels the blessed liquid trail down toward her chest. She has to force herself to use both hands, her left hand is trembling too much so she has to fight to use two hands.

She eases herself onto her back, then partially to her right side, moistening that side now. It's easier to breathe, to swallow, but she doesn't even consider saving any. When it's almost gone she lays back and allows the last drops to drip into her mouth, her tongue seeking the final bits of moisture, the final drop.

Finally she lets go, lets the plastic fall and roll away to destination unknown, She never did see it.

x

Everything hurts so much she doesn't want to move - but she's amazed that in the midst of all consuming agony a thought slips in, works quietly, gently and comfortingly. In the midst of torment beyond any she'd imagined in her most dreadful nightmares a soft melody insinuates itself and she gives herself over to its gentle comfort. She doesn't let herself wonder if the beatings and rapes, torture and terror have driven her into delirium. Even if she is close to death she knows from whence the moment of comfort comes.

She tries to reach for the words, her whispering voice no longer cracking through dry throat. She won't consider waste, she's already decided that when she dies it will be with a prayer or hymn on her lips so she gives hers lf over completely to the tune that plays, comfortingly, within her mind.

"Golden rose, Queen of Ireland, all my cares and troubles cease, as I kneel with love before you, Lady of Knock, my Queen of Peace." She tries to sing softly, to not overstrain her throat still raw from screaming. Her weak voice warbles uncontrollably, but she needs to focus on the comfort the words offer.

"Though your message was unspoken, still the truth in silence lies, as I gaze upon your vision and the truth I try to find." The favorite words, the melody she can hear in her mind, delirious or no, give comfort in her pain and misery. She tries to counter the flatness of her voice with memory of better times.

"Here I stand with John the Teacher, and with Joseph at your side, and I see the Lamb of God on the Altar glorified. Golden rose, Queen of Ireland, all my cares and troubles–"

A rough hand forces between her legs and rips at her. She shrieks, restored voice torn in screams of agony. Her hands are batted away. He didn't leave! He was here all the time! He forces her legs wider, his heavy body slams down upon her!


	19. Picking Up the Pieces

Chapter Nineteen  
Picking up the Pieces

"All right, people, let's take it from the top," Gibbs says as he steps before the huge view screen in MTAC on this dismal early morning, facing the four Major Case Response teams. He has a lot to tell them in coordinating the investigation. He'd almost turned the lengthy presentation over to DiNozzo, but there is too much to cover.

Agents had started arriving before seven; at seven thirty he takes his place. In the front row are Michelle and Tim, Tony and Ziva. In the second are Ducky, there for his psychological autopsy skills, Melanie Kelman, Kenneth Templeton and Patrick Larson. Kevin Lamb, Lisa DuBois, Karen Levy and Matt Phillips complete the third row. Director Shepherd and the remaining members of Phillips' team stand in the rear, unobtrusive.

McGee has obviously not slept; no surprise to anyone. It's been 53 hours since O'Mallory was attacked, he'd already been on duty 19 hours before that. He'd defied instruction by pulling together several chairs in the lounge rather than returning to Silver Spring. Now he's the first one in MTAC this morning, waiting impatiently for the others.

Abby had told Gibbs a few minutes ago that, when she'd arrived just before seven McGee had been waiting in her lab. She'd instantly seen in his eyes the ravages of over 72 hours and that he didn't want the comfort of a hug.

He'd insisted she give him something to keep him awake and alert. Looking into those fiery, half burnt out eyes, she'd refused to give him any artificial aid. Adding to the tension, he's been outpacing her in 'Caf-Pows!' over the past two days, his nerves have to feel like they're running a thousand volt current through them. She'd threatened to test his blood adrenaline levels and to administer a sedative, and he'd yanked the large container of 'Caf-Pow!' from her hand, ripped the top off, drained the huge cup in one draught, shoved it back into her hand and left.

Gibbs resolves to watch him very closely. Obsessive worry and 'Caf-Pow!' fueled nerves flooded with adrenaline are a disastrous combination.

He should be off this case. Gibbs decides he's pushed understanding and mercy beyond sane limits, but he fears what the man will do if he is removed. Taking the law into his own hands and charging after Morley in a murderous frenzy would be only the beginning of the rampage Gibbs fears. He knows his only choices are to restrain the man - and should O'Mallory die because he wasn't there - or else let him continue and they risk consequences equally horrible.

Gibbs decides his only real choices are to watch and wait. McGee will either handle things or he'll have to be put down. And they must keep O'Mallory alive either way.

x

At a signal, the operator at the control panel brings up an aerial shot of Saint Mary the Virgin Church, Hamilton Hall, the two-story Rectory, parking lot and surrounding area. Unfortunately, it's public domain, a Google Satellite image, and thus shows the trees and lush rectangular garden surrounded by church, hall and rectory in full bloom.

"New Year's morning, approximately oh-one-fifty, Special Agent McGee and Chaplain O'Mallory enter the parking lot." A red dot lights up the gate. "There had been a party in the Hall," a green dot appeared on that building, "which had broken up shortly before. The last guest left at approximately oh-one-thirty.

"At the time McGee and O'Mallory arrive, there are four other vehicles in the lot; Rector Donaldson's blue Corolla and Mother O'Mallory's green Fiesta are parked closest to the Rectory door, a white Dodge delivery van is parked here –" a red dot appears some yards away from that door, "and a blue Ford E350 is parked here." The van's position appears beyond the middle of the lot, well away from the other vehicles.

"That vehicle we now known to have been stolen and used in the abduction, but I'll get back to that.

"O'Mallory entered the premises, left her coat by the door." A daytime crime scene photo of the foyer appears, followed in turn by other pictures that illustrate Gibbs' words. "She proceeded through the living room, up these stairs, beyond which is a kitchenette where volunteers had prepared the party refreshments. She then traversed this hall past Donaldson's bedroom to her own, which is between that and the restroom. Inside," the scenes rapidly move from a full image of the disturbed scene to individual detail shots, "we don't know if she attempted to turn on this lamp at the head of the bed by the door, but the bulb had been loosened. We suspect she had removed her dress and set it aside here on the bed when she was attacked and forced from behind across the bed." The image changes and rapid close-ups of the rumpled bed, the ruby red dress, broken glasses and open bra tell the violent story.

"In the struggle her glasses were broken and left here. O'Mallory's legally blind and we believe the glasses were left so she couldn't identify her attacker, nor could she take advantage of any opportunity to escape. As you see, her bra, left and right shoes were found here, here and here." Rapid changes from bed to either side of it illustrate his words.

"Father Donaldson, who slept in the next room, heard nothing, so whatever happened was done quietly. None of her clothing, not even her coat, were missing; so all that probably remained with her was the balance of what she had worn to the party here." A picture of how she appeared that night in Operations, ruby red dress and high heels, allows them to see what she had been left with, sparing Gibbs from having to elaborate.

"Reverend Donaldson signed the Consent-to-Search form. Their laws place him in control of all church property, including her bedroom."

The images flash among the many photos taken in the room on New Year's morning.

"It's the Padre's rule that no one comes to the upper level, so it's doubtful that anyone would have had knowledge of the upstairs layout _except_ our main suspect." The image of Charles Morley appears. It's from his booking by MPDC, the identifying placard held before him. Gibbs had chosen this image because of the man's formidable expression; there's anger, hatred and cruelty in those eyes. He had never doubted Morley's guilt in the brutal murders committed over the summer, nor had he ever credited his sanity.

x

The scene changes to the main floor, again shot in morning light. "The main level consists of foyer, living room, dining room, kitchenette and this short corridor, all surrounding the staircase. Through this door between the kitchenette and hallway is another staircase," the view changes to down that portal, "that leads to a makeshift apartment." Several shots show the layout of those rooms.

"That door," he indicates the apartment's door off the living room, open to show the exit, "leads to storage rooms," the shots are down painted cinderblock halls, "a schoolroom," the small room contains miniature chairs and desks, a blackboard and several pseudo-Medieval ceiling-to-floor tapestries which probably date back to the construction of the church nearly 200 years ago, "and that staircase leads up to the hall near the Secretary's office. From that point, on the right is that office, a 'vesting' room and the Sacristy. The Acolyte vesting room, Priests' office and bathroom are on the left and that door at the end leads back into the Rectory."

x

The aerial image appears again. "It's suspected that Morley, who escaped from FBI custody on December 31 in an FBI car, disabled the agents' vehicle–" the image zooms out until a several mile diameter view of the city appears, "here," a red dot appears far to the west.

"It's from that location that he stole the blue Ford E350, whose owner had left it in the driveway after work. Morley knew the police would be called and alerted to the 350 and the FBI was searching for the vehicle stolen from the motel. He drove the E350 toward the church until, at 1321 North Capital Street, he came across a red Windstar parked in a driveway _here_." Another dot appears closer to the church than the original theft. "Using electrician's tools from the van, he exchanged plates with the Windstar and then drove to the church and parked in the lot already crowding with other cars whose owners were inside for the New Year's party. The Windstar's owner never noted the plate switch when he put it into the garage on the morning of the first; the exchange was discovered by Agents McGee and Palmer.

"We're not sure exactly how or when Morley managed to secrete himself in the upstairs bedroom. We suspect it was either with the help of one of the kitchen crew, Gabriel Leher, or at midnight, as it was the only time the volunteers handling refreshments were all in Hamilton Hall with the other guests. Between one and two it started to snow, but even at two there was just a light dusting on the ground. After the abduction the main body of the snowstorm hit and dumped four inches on our crime scene.

"The 350 was found abandoned here," yet another marker appears, "one point two miles northeast of the church yesterday afternoon at about eighteen thirty and was stolen _again_. It was used last night in an unrelated crime. The interrogation of that perp led us to conclude he's not connected with O'Mallory's abduction.

"He did, however, leave us with an area to search." A red ring expands around the final dot until it covers a five block radius. "Much of that sector is private homes and businesses that took advantage of the holidays to shut down for a few days. MPDC and FBI are assisting in combing the area."

x

"We can't dismiss the probability," Matt Phillips points out from the last row right, "that if he switched twice, he'd do it a third time."

"Nothing's being dismissed." Gibbs signals to the operator and all the dots and disk turn off and he declares: "But I think you're right. My gut tells me we won't find her there. Ducky?"

He steps aside as the man comes down from the second tier and faces his colleagues.

x

"When it was determined _who_ we are searching for, I subpoenaed all the psychological records on this man, as well as witness testimony at his trial." Few people outside law enforcement know that a Medical Examiner, as an Officer of the Court, has power to issue subpoenas and compel witnesses with the full force of the law at his back. "What I found is an aggressive, manipulative and highly methodical individual.

"He managed, over the course of five years on a part-time job, to conceal his true nature from a vast number of people, always with what I believe to be a carefully thought out agenda. He shrewdly played the part of a barely educated laborer and won the trust of an unknown number of people so that he might, at a time of his own choosing, prey upon them as a wolf in the fold.

"Whatever his crimes might have been outside the environs of this church, he subscribed to a fundamentalist, narrow-minded interpretation of doctrine that led him to strike out at persons he believed perverted his religion and its practices. By striking out I mean a systematic program of abduction, torture, sexual abuse that in each occasion culminated in murders heavily steeped in his symbolic methods of punishment.

"His victims, upon whom he exacted punishment, were women who had particular expression of their religious practices. The first, whose body has not yet been found, taught in the Sunday School, another sang in the choir, another served as a Eucharistic Minister and assisted in the garden beside Morley. All had one notable thing in common: though Lt. Dumas was known as 'Tina', their given names were Christa, Christina and Christine.

x

"In his sheep's guise," Ducky continues, "he gained the trust of the women. As the wolf, he kidnapped, raped, tortured and murdered each of them. The tortures can only be described as horrific. Though Christa Alvarez's body was not found, Marine Recruiting Officer Lt. Christina Dumas had been found with marks of what was determined to be a scourge, a multi-thonged whip tipped with sharp metal shards, and a pleated crown of thorns had been forced onto her head." He sees the effect these words have upon his listeners.

"Christine Night was treated in the same manner but she was also crucified and a lance driven through her side. We believe that if Lieutenant Dumas had not suffered a fatal rupture of her heart, she would have been crucified as well.

"Mr. Morley set the cross containing Ms. Night's body at the door to Christina Dumas' Recruitment Office, further proving in his eyes his superiority and immunity from capture. At the same time, he continued to play the role of a harmless and trustworthy member of the congregation and staff member of the church.

"We find further evidence of Morley's manipulative nature in that, immediately following his murder of Lieutenant Dumas, he _confessed_ to Reverend O'Mallory. He knew that the sacrosanct nature of Sacramental Confession is such that the good Reverend could not reveal anything she knew. His disguise of his voice was very effective, over the course of _two _confessions she did not recognize him, but under Canon Law she could not assist us in our investigation for she was forbidden to reveal anything about those confessions.

"It was his method of psychological torture against her in conjunction with the physical tortures of the three young women.

"Regrettably, his perverse sexual crimes far outstripped his manipulative nature. I conducted the autopsies on Lieutenant Dumas and Ms. Night and obtained the report of the court-ordered psychologist who tested his fitness to stand trial. These reveal a man who cannot be described by any other term except 'monstrous'.

"When not using the camouflage that served him so well, Charles Morley is a sexual sadist of the lowest order. While such a person is able to gratify certain urges but still remain generally in control, this man indulges a nature that seems to lack any control whatsoever. Witness testimony from people - women - who knew him in the past, had been permitted at his trial. They painted quite a grizzly picture.

"There is, in fact, evidence of an increasing inability to perform in sexual situations _without_ resorting to violence, which characteristically escalates in each case."

x

"Ducky?" Lisa DuBois calls from the third row, "you're saying he can't get it up without hurting a woman?"

"Sadly, Agent DuBois, he passed the 'hurting' stage quite some time ago, but yes. His potential potency, as it were, seems limited to behavior which incorporates acts of violence."

"Then these survivors and the dead and missing might not be the only victims. We may be looking for a lot more bodies."

"So the FBI suspected. No, it is natural for such cases as his to be the culmination of a steady increase in pathological behavior. While the focus to date has been on his provable crimes, the probability exists that further investigation will turn up more victims, though we may pray they are of less devastating assaults.

"And there's more than enough evidence that Reverend O'Mallory represented his ultimate target, at least at St. Mary's, for there is the chance he would move on. Not only was she _participating _in religious practices against the natural order as he saw it, but she was guilty of the capital crime of doing so as a Priest."

x

There apparently being no further questions - the presentation was explicit enough - Gibbs resumes the center position. He's already said more than he would in a month, but there's more to cover.

"The torture / murders of Dumas and Night took place in his own home, in the basement. That home has since been sold, there's no sign that he has returned there with O'Mallory. We haven't found where Alvarez was murdered, or where he put her body. We can't even say these three were his only victims." There's no need to say that he'd been laying the groundwork for his sheep identity for years and only turned wolf this past summer.

"Our job is to track this wolf back to his lair. Somewhere, in a place he feels secure, he has murdered at least one other woman and may well be holding O'Mallory there. We have to backtrack him and find his hole." When Gibbs looks at McGee, he doesn't finish '_and hopefully do it before he kills again_'. "Progress?"

x

SSA Kevin Lamb speaks up from the third row, "We've been canvassing the neighborhood around the church. So far we haven't found anyone who's seen or heard anything."

SSA Matt Phillips, on the right end of that row, reports that "the area where the 350 was abandoned and re-stolen is being canvassed but we've only had six hours. We're going back after this but so far nada. I'm concentrating on stolen vehicles from that area; I hope to see what he's driving now."

SSA Melanie Kelman's report is no more optimistic. "No one has been found who has seen O'Mallory since last year, nor has anyone seen Morley. We've compiled," her team passes out papers to the others, "a list of his former haunts."

Maybe four teams working them will find what one has not.

xxx

Siobhan clamps her lips together to contain a cry of misery as she awakens, face down, and pain attacks every inch of her body. She wishes she could escape it, but the only escape from the agony is when she's beaten unconscious. She tries to keep silent, knows any expression of her pain will only please her unseen attacker.

She will not plead, she will not beg, she certainly will not _cry_, no matter what he does. To do so is worse than useless; it's a declaration of his victory over her.

No matter what he does to her, she's determined that he will not win.

She realizes she doesn't even care anymore if he's here or not. He's tricked her so often, remained silent to her questions; lulled her into false security that she was alone, only to attack when she felt safe.

Her body partially numb from the pervading cold from the cement, she tries to push herself up but flares of pain in her arms and torso stop her. Her right wrist is the worst, it's swollen and sensitive, the slightest touch sends flares of pain shooting through her and she can barely move it. As bad as the rest of her body is, she's only sure that here he's broken something. She remembers him stomping on her hand, bending it unnaturally. Did he break something? Will she live long enough for it to really matter?

x

She feels warmth from her right, knows the heating pipe is that way. He'd beaten her before and after each rape – always raping her after brutalizing her – but this time she'd fallen unconscious close to the only source of heat.

Carefully, slowly, she reaches out, tries to drag herself along the rough cement, clamps her mouth shut against the pain. She can't use her right hand; she clamps her left hand over her mouth to silence the pain.

Holding her hand to her chest, she uses her left hand to help boost herself, tries to force herself to rise against the pain. After many tries, resisting the flaring pain, she manages to get up. She has only a few feet to go to reach the warm corner, but every move is agony. It's only the small promise of relief the heat offers that makes her move at all.

How long has it been? How many hours? How many days?

x

Carefully avoiding touching the hot pipe, she grits her teeth and forces herself to lean close, her left hand balancing herself against the wall. She gets her body as close as she can, grateful for the heat that starts to penetrate. If only it could ease just a little of the pain.

Arms pin hers from behind and she's forced forward into the corner, into the scorching pipe!

Being near it warmed, pressed to it it _burns_ and the bare body behind hers shoves hard along the length of hers. She tries to push against the corner walls, but her right hand won't bear any force against a blast of agony even worse than the burning. Hands press her breasts together hard, the scorching pipe between them and she shrieks. The searing agony goes on and on until she's sure she must faint.

He pulls and flings her so hard her feet leave the floor before she slams down hard, rolls with the impact. She winds up on her back and tries the impossible task of grasping every inch that had been burned as tears sting her clenched eyes.

'I won't cry - _I __- __won't __- __cry_!'

A hand clamps about hers, pins them together, crushes her fingers and agony explodes through her right wrist. A sharp twist and she shrieks, a hard hand smacks her hard enough that lightning flares in her blurred vision. She clamps her teeth and keeps her silence as the hand crashes back, slaps her right cheek, then again her left, over and over. The slaps crack like gunshots, batter her head from side to side, wrench her neck with the brutal force. She tries to pry her broken hand free, the hand clamps tighter and she screams in new agony.

Her ears ring loudly by the time the blows stop, the pain in her face more torment added to the countless hurts. She tastes her blood; it nauseates her. She holds her breath tightly to keep from making a sound, knows if she starts to sob she'll never be able to stop.

That's what he wants; proof of his superiority.

x

His legs force hers apart and she clamps the '_please'_ into silence. She's too raw, too torn, too hurt. She holds her breath, bites back her cry. She feels him press to her and he twists his hand into her disheveled, blood matted hair and pulls her head back. He comes down on her, her burnt chest, stomach and crotch take the worst of the hurt. She grits her teeth, her shriek held to her mind alone.

xxx

"What've you got, Abby?" Gibbs calls as he enters the garage dominated by the blue E350. It's been two hours since the meeting in MTAC, the 55th hour has passed. Abby crawls backward out from the vehicle; Gibbs refrains from commenting on the shortness of her skirt. When she turns, she holds a cylindrical clothing sticky-brush in her hand.

"A conundrum," she confesses, hating it. "I've been all over this van since it got here at three in the morning. I've examined evidence and crawled into and under this thing for the past –" she checks her watch, "_six_ hours. I've gone through it with swabs, tweezers, my very best magnifying glass and Harry here. I found plenty of evidence Morley was in here, but only in the driver's seat. There are fibers that trace back to a prison issue jumpsuit, his prints are on the wheel, backs of the mirrors, all around the front and back license plates. You know what _else_ I found?"

"What?"

"_Zilch_."

"What do you mean 'zilch'?"

"I mean bupkis, nada. Well, not nada, what color hair did Mary Hall have?"

"Blonde."

"Got it covered," she points to the cylinder. "Long blonde hair taken from the rear cabin. I took swabs, found blood, DNA, a whole mess of things. She had a pretty rough time in there. I found evidence on the passenger seat too."

"Then _what's _your 'zilch'?"

She fixes him with a penetrating glare. "Are you sure this is the van Siobhan was kidnapped in?"

"You did the hypnosis yourself. Plates match the Windstar. Why?"

"Because, Gibbs, that's _all_ I found. Susan Blake drives the van but I found some prints that show Morley was driving it before Curtis White. He adjusted the rear view mirror so I got some good prints off the back. I swabbed the seats, looked over every millimeter of this thing. I found plenty of clothing particles, brown hair; but Siobhan was topless, I should have found plenty of epidermal evidence on the seat or back."

She holds up the cylinder. "Not _one_ red hair, not one _drop_ of AB positive blood. Not one _skin_ cell I can trace back to her. I compared what I did find to the samples you took from the Blakes, they came back to them and to Curtis White and Mary Hall. As far as I can tell, from searching and analyzing over these past six hours, Siobhan was _never_ in this van."

"Abby, it was in the lot, it was found–"

"I know what I found, and what I didn't."

"You're _sure_. No blanket, no bag, no plas–"

"Covered, covered and covered. May McGee slap me silly if I'm wrong. Siobhan was never in this van."


	20. Crucified

Chapter Twenty  
Crucified

"The van was a red herring," Gibbs announces as he enters the bullpen. "He didn't get her out that way."

"Then _how_–?" McGee demands, barely manages to tone it down. "What do you mean?"

"Abby says she was never in it. Not a trace."

"Then how did he get her out?"

"I don't _know_, McGee, but she promises you can slap her silly if she's wrong."

"I'd nev–"

"We know that. Come on, McGee, you know that place better than anyone here. If he never put her in the van, _how'd_ he get her out?"

"Without anyone seeing him come or go?" Ziva adds.

"Is there a–?" DiNozzo begins but Gibbs waves him off. McGee stands motionless behind his desk, his eyes focused on something none of them can see. No one makes a sound that could interrupt; then in a burst of activity he sits and his hands attack his keyboard. The four watch in silence as his fingers move so fast they seem to blur. No one can see his monitor when he stops, his eyes wide.

"Dear God in Heaven…" he breathes, barely heard. He yanks his desk drawer open, pulls out his gun and ID.

"What is it?" DiNozzo demands a he leaves his own desk, only to be nearly battered off his feet as McGee charges for the elevator.

"McGEE!" Gibbs' shout crowds Operations.

"_COME ON_!" McGee demands, batters the elevator button.

Two cars rocket up out of the garage and leave the ground as they launch. Tight turns onto the street leave black trails of burned rubber. Gibbs has the accelerator pressed hard to the floor; McGee wishes he would hurry.

xxx

Siobhan wakes to new pain in her right wrist, agony worse than the break she'd feared. She realizes she's on her back, her right arm pulled painfully upward, a rope cinches tightly about her wrist.

Her heart pounds as she feels the narrow length of wood that runs down along her back and legs. She's being tied to another board under her trapped right arm.

She fights with her free hand, but beatings and deprivation have weakened her too much. He blocks her left fist, grabs her arm. "I don't have my tools or nails so these'll have to do."

"No…." She can't fight his strength. He shoves her arm down, slams it onto the wood. Siobhan struggles but can't stop him as he wraps a coarse rope about her wrist, cinches it tight.

She strains against the ropes, pulling as hard as she can, fights the agony. If she can't escape now she's going to die!

x

She can't scream, her breath reduced to panting gasps. Her heart pounds so wildly she's sure she'll faint. So scared she can barely feel the pain, she yanks at the tight ropes.

'He's _crucifying _me! Just like he did Tina and Chrissy!'

She pulls wildly, desperate, terrified. Knowing she is to die is one thing, quite another to be murdered by slow suffocation over hours. Her heart pounds. The agony sickens her. Her breath is already reduced to sharp, rapid gasps.

'Follow the Cross' had always been meaningful to her. But before this ordeal she never imagined she would end her life on one.

He tightens the rope again, it crushes her left wrist. "Comfy?" he reaches between her thighs, rubs her lips roughly. She tries to press her legs together. It's a hopeless effort; his coarse hand scrapes her raw flesh. "I could tie your feet, give you a sporting chance, but this is better."

Going above her head, he lifts the cross. By stages he raises her upward. She slips down, more and more of her weight bourn on her wrists as the cross rises. The agony in her arms, the lightning bolt of pain shooting through her right wrist, the increasing strain on the torso as her body slips down the wood...

She wants to struggle, but tipping the cross over is a useless effort; she needs her strength for the ordeal to come.

x

The cross is slid back until it stands nearly upright. Agony flares through her, so horrendous she can barely breathe, but that'll get worse. Pressure builds on her lungs as she hangs, her arms bearing her weight. She's so badly battered she can't raise herself as the pressure on her straining lungs increases.

A hard push, a loud snap and the cross doesn't move. She knows it's locked in a clamp she never found. Pain flares through her abused arms but that's the least of the hardship.

x

Hanging, bare feet dangling off the floor, pressure builds on her lungs, keeps her from drawing a breath. Weak from hunger, thirst and uncounted beatings, she can't fight the pressure. Her breath wheezes in her throat; she can breathe out but to inhale is an ordeal. The extension and pressure bear down on her abused chest. She fights to pull herself up, to resist the pain, but it's hopeless. Her right wrist feels like it's being ripped off, she can't put the pressure she needs.

But he won't win.

x

"Father - for - give him. Our - Father, who - art - in - heaven ..."

"He's not going to help you, you perverted slut. Alverez hung for nearly six hours, Night for over seven. I gave them footrests to give them a chance and _fucked _them while they hung. It made them last just a bit longer. You won't last an hour."

No matter how hard it is, how much it hurts, she strains to drag air into her lungs. The pressure only makes the pain, particularly in her battered ribs, that much worse, but she won't stop.

To stop struggling, to give in, is to die.

x

He's positioned her arms the perfect distance apart. She'd never doubted he would. The agony in her wrists is nothing compared to that in her chest. This is her death. She gasps for air that wheezes in her parched throat.

She tries to use her bare feet on the smooth sides of the cross but they slip on the wood. She can't get herself up to ease even slightly the pressure that crushes her lungs.

This is the fate of the crucified; this is what makes it a terror. It's not blood loss, not exposure, not starvation, not dehydration ... but hours and hours and hours of slow, inexorable suffocation.

"_Beg _for your life, slut, and I might have some mercy."

"'Into - your hands -" she can barely get enough air to whisper, "O merciful - Savior - I commend - my spirit."

She could pray silently, more easily, but he will _hear _her final prayer, whichever one it will be. He will know she'll die with prayers on her lips and that he'll never win.

Each breath is slow, taking all her strength to inhale. To exhale she only needs to relax and the air is forced out. It makes the next breath harder.

In time, if she lives, liquid will start to fill her lungs. But, beaten and battered, long deprived of food or water, she knows she'll suffocate long before she drowns.

Every breath, shallow though it is, is a torment, but she'll use each shallow breath.

"Acknowledge - I humbly - beseech you - a sheep - of your own - kind - a lamb - of your own - flock - a sinner - of - your own - redeeming. Receive - me - into the - arms - of your - mercy - into the – blessed - rest of - everlasting - peace - and - into the - glorious - company - of the saints - in - light ... amen...'"

xx

Gibbs stomps on the brake many yards short of the main door, screeching to a practiced stop directly outside it. He and McGee leap out, slam doors and they run, McGee for the door, Gibbs for the back of the car even before DiNozzo hits his own brakes. His car slides to a loud stop five feet ahead of the Dodge.

Gibbs pulls from his trunk a twenty pound rod of steel, the two sets of thick handles testament to its power.

The two men and two women charge after their frantic colleague.

x

The sight of first one, then four more black clad people charging through the lunchtime crowd of the Senior Nutrition program causes a loud stir. By the time the latter four reach the office in the back corridor, McGee's bent over the startled Priest's desk, his words hit like blows from the ram in Gibbs' hand.

"– sub-basement, you _must _know, you're the _Rector_, Goddamnit!"

"McGEE!" Gibbs can tolerate much in the man's distress; blatant disrespect he will not abide. It's time for rational answers, preferably without head slaps.

McGee turns to his fellows, tries to rein in his distress enough to explain to the others what he'd already told Gibbs. "In the 50's and 60's there were fallout shelters built all over the country. Public buildings had them where people could go during an air attack. When the war scare and air raid alerts ended a lot of them were just ignored _but this church has one_."

"I've never heard of one."

"There _has_ to be, it's in the emergency plans from the 60's."

"The apartment under the Rectory was a converted basement, not an air rade shelter. There's nothing under it."

"It's not under the church, it's under the hall! The entrance was in the courtyard outside, in the rectangle between the buildings – where the garden is! But there has to be another entrance, one not on the plans!"

"I've never seen anything."

"It _has _to be there. It's fifty feet down. _Think_!"

x

Donaldson calls on years of what he'd thought of as familiarity with every inch of these three buildings. He's out of his seat in an instant, pushes past the agents and out into the hall, down to its end, right and down the stairs leading to the storage rooms and Sunday school.

They burst into the only possible room, the only one not crowded with liturgical storage. The Sunday School has no other door except the bathroom's, but the walls were covered with ceiling to floor embroidered arrases. They start shoving them aside - Michelle, at the left wall, calls out: "Special Agent Gibbs!"

Behind the image of the young Jesus teaching the Rabbis in the Temple is a door, one that opens forward. It was well covered by the very large, thick cloth. The black staircase extends far down to a thin rectangle of light. "Must've been built by volunteer labor, so it didn't appear in the plans," DiNozzo decides.

"The church was owned by the Roman Archdiocese," Donaldson reminds them, appalled by the discovery. "It was sold thirty five years ago."

"Someone covered this door after the air raid scares. It has been ignored and forgotten," Ziva concludes.

"Not by one bastard," Gibbs says tightly. "He found it! Stay here," he commands Donaldson and the agents cautiously descend the black staircase. He's not surprised to hear the priest's footsteps behind them.

x

At the base they open the door slowly and find the rooms of an apartment, four doors off a central room, only a few pieces of furniture here. The far right door is closed.

On the table in the middle of the room lie a half-slip, hose and pink panties. Seeing them, Tim's fury explodes. He clutches his gun tightly and starts toward the closed door. Gibbs, in front, grabs his arm, restrains and signals him to silence. A sharp nod is all McGee will give. He wants to break the door down, to go in shooting.

He can't.

The five agents range in a semicircle about the door, guns ready, the priest only a step behind them. Gibbs hefts the steel ram, shares it with DiNozzo. They take sides, aim at a point over the handle, draw back the ram and put everything into one devastating swing.

The door blasts inward. The bare room within is painted beige/pink, a single bulb high in the center. At the right wall a naked man stands before a nude woman. Blood and bruises cover almost every inch of bare flesh. She hangs from a cross, her chest heaves with desperate, shallow gasps.

Rage rips McGee's mind – his charge is in an explosion of hate.

He crashes into Morley, drives him backward, slams him into the far cement wall and rams his gun up into his throat.

x

"McGEE!" Gibbs' voice reverberates through the room as DiNozzo and Donaldson grab the gasping, bloody woman and lift to ease the pressure suffocating her.

Siobhan draws a lung-bursting breath and yells as loudly as she can. "NO TIMMY PLEASE!"

"McGee, put the gun _down_!" Gibbs' loud command reverberates through the room.

McGee drives the pistol harder into the frightened man's throat, angles it so the bullet will blow off the top of Morley's head.

Dissatisfied, he moves the gun to the side of Morley's head and his right hand clenches his throat. He leans into the grip, left hand trembling violently against his rage, the gun shoved hard into Morley's skull.

"McGee, put it _down _and back off," Gibbs commands, but he knows it's useless. Morley is turning purple but McGee's beyond hearing.

"TIMMY _PLEASE_ DON'T _DO_ IT!" Siobhan screams into the room, unable to find him, barely feeling the pain in her throat with her desperation. She doesn't know who's supporting her, can't think about being naked. She _knows _what he's doing. She has to stop her love from committing murder.

"McGee, drop the gun." Ziva calls.

"Tim," Michelle appeals when she sees McGee's grip tighten so much he almost closes his hand through Morley's throat. "It's _over_."

"TIMMY LISTEN TO THEM! DON'T DO THIS! _PLEASE_!"

x

It's Siobhan's impassioned screaming that snaps Tim's madness. He can't believe she's begging for this monster's life! Holding the gun steady, deep into Morley's throat, he looks back over his right shoulder and won't believe what he sees. DiNozzo and Donaldson hold Shav, probably hurting her more in lifting her. She's covered in blood and bruises, red hair wildly disarrayed and matted with blood. She pleads toward the opposite wall, unable to find him. He turns back further; Gibbs, David and Palmer have their guns trained on _him_!

Uncertainty holds them back, their eyes reflect their conflict.

x

Only Donaldson is moving. Letting DiNozzo bear Shav for the moment, he pulls off his black jacket, reverses and drapes it over Siobhan's shoulders, the fabric arms behind her, then helps support her, hands on her hips. She hasn't stopped begging.

"Timmy please! _P__LEASE_ don't do it!"

"How can you say that?" At his words, she turns her head right, locks on his position. A good look at her bloody, bruised face and he shoves the barrel of the gun harder into the skull, as if to blast the brain with the Sig alone. "This bastard _deserves_–"

"He's caught Timmy he's _caught_!"

He turns back to her, unable to believe she's saying it. He tightens his right hand, feeling his fingers closing through the flesh.

"McGee, it's over. Put the gun _down_." Gibbs commands, wishing he didn't have to aim his Sig at his friend.

"Come on, kid," DiNozzo urges, moves away from the gasping woman, leaves her to Donaldson's care, "don't go out like this. He's not worth it."

"Timmy _Please_!"

He turns to her. The sight of her naked, blood covered and battered body rips him. "Shav–"

"_I don't want his death on your conscience_! Please, a chuisle, it's _over_! He can't _hurt _me anymore!"

x

McGee turns, stares into the frightened eyes of the naked sadist. It's so easy: the gun is to the madman's head, almost breaking through the skull. His right hand still crushes the bastard's throat. A little more pressure, trigger or throat, and it _is_ over! His fist tightens about the gun.

"McGee," Gibbs prays his calm tone will get through where screaming won't, "I can't let you fire, you know that."

McGee can't take his eyes off Morley's, the terror in them, and his hand tightens further about his throat. With all his strength he squeezes the throat, presses the Sig into the skull.

"Mo ghile mear!" He can hear tears in her voice. "I'm begging you. I'm _begging_ you! Don't do this. Don't _murder_ him. Don't have him on your conscience!"

x

DiNozzo is beside him. He hadn't seen him approach. He locks his attention back to the monster, barely hears his partner. "Pro – Tim, take Siobhan out of here."

McGee's eyes flick to the face of his favorite tormentor. "He–!"

"Tim, take Siobhan out of here."

x

Slowly, very slowly, Tim's grip on the gun, on the throat, eases. When he pulls back Gibbs is there; he and DiNozzo drag the madman away from the wall. Tim shoves the gun into its holster, focuses only on Siobhan.

Michelle and Ziva untie her wrists from the cross, Michelle barely able to reach. Siobhan is partially covered by Donaldson's jacket, the arms draped behind her upraised ones. Tim steps in to relieve Palmer; she strips off her own jacket and ties it about Siobhan's bloody waist.

Gibbs and DiNozzo waste no gentleness dragging Morley through the door. Everyone has seen the skeleton near the destroyed door.

Tim's only care is for Siobhan.

Donaldson steps discreetly away from his naked partner, leaving his jacket for McGee to wrap about her. He'd tried his best not to look at her, concerned for her feelings as much as her safety.

The women make room so Tim and Siobhan may hug. Their embrace very careful but filled with more than words can express.

xxx

In Hamilton Hall high above, not one of the nearly fifty elderly men and women dining in the Nutrition program has an answer about the running men and women earlier. Now Metro police announce their arrival with loud sirens. They enter and, at the Parish Secretary's rapid guidance, cross the huge room to the door that leads to the offices. They leave one of their own at the door.

Within a minute another siren approaches and an ambulance pulls to a stop. EMTs follow the same path the police had, met with stares but giving no answers.

The few less timid souls who approach the door are politely turned away. Ellen Meyers has no answers she will give, though her words are freighted with anger and grim satisfaction. Several times Father Donaldson ascends and descends, his words are polite but brief and he moves with determination that clears paths for him.

Vehicles from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service insinuate themselves where they may. The black clad men and women give no answers as they enter, cross and descend. The presence of the Medical Examiner van escalates concern; the tall and short men are unhindered in their path but still there are no answers.

x

It's half an hour since the mysterious parade of officials began when the first astonishing answers are given, though not with words. The curious men and women in the Hall are astonished when four uniformed policemen exit the office door and cut directly through the rear of the room to the emergency door that leads to the ramp for the handicapped.

They pull the parish's former Gardener, handcuffs on his wrists, across the room. To those who recognize him, the fact that he's supposed to be in prison serving two life sentences sparks rampant speculation.

The greatest shock comes minutes later. MPDC officers and Federal agents enter and form a human barricade from one door to the other. Several EMTs follow, two of them wheel a gurney on which lies the missing Curate. Beside the wheeled stretcher walks a grim man wearing a black NCIS Federal Agent jacket and hat.

Cries of shock and outrage go up as Mother O'Mallory is hurried across the room to the exit. Only her evident consciousness keeps the situation from dissolving into chaos.

Several try, and are prevented in their effort, to leave the Hall to go out to the street. It's only when, minutes later, the siren of the ambulance begins its retreating cry that they may leave the huge room. Most elect to try to crowd into the small office area, the slower ones must await answers near the door.

When Father Donaldson climbs the stairs a path opens for him. His brief words tell people little more than they'd already figured out for themselves.


	21. Healing Fire

Chapter Twenty One  
Healing Fire

By the time Tim McGee can see Siobhan in the hospital over twenty-four hours have passed. He'd unwillingly waited this long under command of doctors who would not extend exception to a gold shield. Every minute of every hour had been torment but he'd waited until posted visiting hours. He'd restrained himself from barging through only because he knew it would accomplish nothing. He'd finally succumbed to Ducky's orders, the man had assured him that if he did not make use of a bunk in Headquarters he would be sedated aand confined, Since Siobhan had been sedated after treatment, there was no way he could even attempt to justify refusal.

He also believed Ducky would make good on his threat.

Thus, both 'patients' had slept through the evening and night.

But finally he's here. He waits impatiently until the nurse who had escorted him to the door comes back out. He doesn't hear a word she says, but he supposes it to be some admonition.

It's strange, he reflects for an instant. When he'd walked out of Hamilton Hall beside Shav's gurney, he'd realized the madman who'd been so short with his friends, shoved a gun under a man's chin, then tried to strangle him while putting a bullet through his skull, was gone.

It's Tim McGee who pushes the door.

But his heart is squeezed in his chest when he sees the woman who means life to him lying on the white bed. The top of the bed is raised, allowing her to half sit up. Monitor leads are taped to her and clear fluid drips from an IV bags into each arm. Her face and arms are covered with bruises and this almost flares his anger. He can see the lumps of bandages even under the hospital gown and light blanket. They try to hide the livid wounds so clear upon her body yesterday; they'll never hide them from him. He has to force himself to forget them, to concentrate on Shav.

He recognizes the glasses she wears; he'd retrieved the old pair from her desk at the start of the search, held them for when they found her. Donaldson had told him yesterday afternoon that a new set are on order, her own are still evidence in yet another trial to come.

x

Over this year he's grown to detest the antiseptic smell that hangs over everything. First Gibbs before his 'retirement', then Michelle, then himself - twice - then Jimmy. Each time he'd sworn that would be the last time he'd endure this scent but each time reality struck a hammer blow. Now is the worst of all.

Shav opens her emerald eyes and he can see she's fighting the old prescription, but her brilliant smile lights the room to dazzling intensity.

x

"I don't look that bad, do I?"

"Huh?" he asks as he lets the door close. He realizes he'd stopped dead at the doorway for several seconds.

"You look so grim."

"I'm not," he assures her. Her eyes say how well she can read him. Her battered and bruised face is swollen; more bruises cover every inch not obscured by hospital gown or blanket. He remembers the roses in his hand, raises them to her, but can wait no longer. The fragrant bundle is on the table and he's bent over her, his arms about her. Restrained by the IVs and assorted wires, she hugs him as well as she may; he holds her very carefully. The beeping of the machine to her right quickens as she clings to him.

It's many moments before he can let her go, longer before she can reluctantly release him. He sees that her right hand, which felt so hard against his back, is encased in a metal frame. A layer of thick material covers it; it keeps her hand immobile from four inches up her forearm to the first joints of her fingers.

"What day is it?"

He's mildly surprised, but can see how she'd lost track. "Saturday."

She looks down. New Year's had been Wednesday, he'd asked her to marry him early that morning, a nightmare ago. "Tomorrow's Epiphany." She forces the thought away. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, how are _you_?"

She tries to smile, he can see so well how forced it is. "I'm feeling no pain, and _that's _a relief, but that's because the nurse was here about a half hour ago." She glances up at the dripping IV on her left. "Whatever they're giving me, I can't feel a thing."

"Don't you know what it is?"

She tries again to smile. That she so obviously has to force it again tells him a lot. "I'm sure Abby could pronounce it. I'm just glad it works."

"Speaking of Abby, she wanted me to make sure I got this message to you right away. She pulled Morley's medical records." He pulls a paper from his pocket and opens it. "He's 'azoospermic'. Ducky says that's probably a contributing factor in what he did."

"Timmy?"

He looks up from the paper. "Yes?"

"What's 'azoospermic'?"

He restrains himself from slapping the back of his own head. "I'm sorry. That means he can't make any sperm; so you don't have to worry that–"

Her sharp sob cuts him off, but the exclamation is as quickly stifled. She holds her breath, her face contorted in repressed grief she would hide behind her left hand.

He would embrace her but hesitates, thinking she might not want to be touched.

He takes her left hand, her wrapped and braced right lying useless at her side. It's a long time before she can let her breath out and her voice strives for calm that's utterly faked.

"They gave me medicine – the 'morning after pill'," she wipes tears from her eyes, so close to losing the battle, "so I won't – I won't –"

Grief she can barely contain batters her; she hovers on the brink, not giving in to the tears. She fights as she'd fought fear, as she'd fought pain. Not even before him will she cry. She will not cry. She'll be strong. She will _not __**cry**_!

x

Tim wishes he could help her.

He can't help her.

He also knows, from checking with her nurse while at the station, that they'd done a rape test kit on her, hardly much point with the bastard in custody - _again_. The woman had told him Shav had displayed no emotion during that intimate examination, keeping everything tightly contained within her. It's hardly an unusual response, there are all kinds of responses, she'd said.

The nurse - whatever her name was - had also said that Shav had also spoken this morning to a Rape Trauma Counselor. There will be many such talks. For one who chose to devote her life to helping, now she suffers the bitter shame of assault and needs help.

He'd spoken to the Agency's Therapist and will make certain she gets all the help there can be. And he will be there so she may endure it.

x

But that is for days, weeks, months in the future. She'll be a long time trying to recover. Now she cannot breathe to speak. He watches her fight grief, fight her chaotic emotions.

He watches her face, watches her shove the emotions into a sealed box in her soul. They fight her, she fights to contain them. She manages to win, to look up at him, to meet his eyes.

He watches the grief battle to get out.

"I'm sorry," she says, her voice filled with shame.

"No, Shav, you mustn't be sor–"

"What's happening outside?"

He knows the question's sharpness, nearly a demand, is because she's endured all she can. Now she needs distraction until she can endure his concern. "Morley's back in jail where he'll stay _forever_ this time. I only care about you."

"Did you get in trouble?"

He resigns himself to many rapid changes of subject and just tries to keep up. "No. I was sure the Director would call me in, but for some reason my going berserk got left out of all the reports."

"Fancy that." But then what's left of her forced smile collapses. "Timmy, he said it was Christa Alvarez."

He doesn't want to go into this, but knows once she gets her mind set on something she won't let it go. But that characteristic consistency seems lacking now; her mind leaps chaotically and he strives to keep up. "We believe it was."

He can see so well in her face the pain she'd try to hide. He knows she'd believed; now she's sure. He would spare her if he could, but Shav is not a woman who tolerates being 'spared'.

"He spread lye several times on her body to speed decomposition and mask the odor, stop it from filtering up into the schoolroom and other areas." He doesn't mention the generous supply of baking soda which had been as effective in countering the stench of death and decomposition.

In the months since Alverez, Morley's first known victim, had disappeared, her body had decayed rapidly under the corrosive effects of the acidic powder. The lye had since been removed, replaced with more baking soda, though Abby had found traces of the caustic chemical in the pile of bones. Fortunately the remaining traces of lye were too small for Shav to have suffered burns when she'd touched the bones. What had been recovered from her hands had been mostly the odor-absorbing soda.

x

Apparently it had not been part of Morley's plan last summer to burn Shav. As with Dumas and Night, he'd intended to scourge her, force a crown of long thorns upon her head, crucify her and impale her with a spear. Only his capture, and the confiscation of those weapons, had forced him to change his plans.

Alverez had been murdered in the church, in the trap Morley had prepared for his ultimate victim. But Dumas and Night had died in Morley's basement and no clues had led from there to the death trap he'd planned for Shav.

x

Siobhan knows bits of baking soda had been found on her fingers during her examination, she doesn't even have to ask. She'd touched the bones several times.

"Timmy, how did she die?"

He shakes his head, "Shav, all we have are bones. Ducky found one of them, above her wrist, was fractured. He thinks it _might_ have been from a large nail."

She puts her head back on the pillow, her eyes focused somewhere past the ceiling. "I know."

He pulls up a chair and sits close to her. With the bed slightly elevated she doesn't have to strain to see him.

He certainly will not say what they've both figured out; that that basement room had been prepared for her. Had Morley not been captured last summer, she would already be many months dead.

"Shav, do you want to talk about it?"

She nods, but "No, not now. Now I just want to–"

x

Whatever she wants is cut off by Rev. George Donaldson's entrance. He's particularly monochrome, the black that covers him from shoes to neck broken only by the traditional tab of white, but his black eyes can't hide an equal mood.

"_Hi_!" Siobhan's greeting is exceptionally bright against his grimness and as fake as anything either man has ever seen.

"How are you?" he asks as he comes to the right side of the bed, beside the beeping monitor and dripping IV.

"I'm with my two favorite men," she tells him brightly, reaches for his arm with her braced hand, "how could I be?"

They can see through the pretense so easily. "I'm so glad you're all right, there were a lot of people scared."

"I know. I was one of them." She tries to keep the smile, but can't manage it. "I was scared," she confesses. "So scared. I was _sure_ I was going to di–" she bites the word off and turns to Tim, but it's several long moments before she can say: "I didn't want to lose you."

"You didn't."

But she bites off her words, visibly clamps down on her feelings, locks in the grief.

He wishes she wouldn't.

She turns to Donaldson; they can see she's trying to escape this subject as well. "How are things at home?"

Donaldson finds it significant she hadn't said 'Saint Mary's' or 'the Church'. "Better."

"Better?" she latches onto his tone, and what he hadn't said. In his way, he's no better an actor than she is. They've worked together for two years, too long for that to work. "All right, George, I'm not blind – not _anymore_. What's wrong? What's happened?"

He sits down in the other chair. "This past week has been rough and I shouldn't tell you this, you have enough to worry about–"

"But you will," she tells him firmly. Her own feelings are obviously buried, and she seems relieved even in her determination. She's found something outside of herself to concentrate on.

x

He takes a long moment, finally decides there's no point in trying to withhold what she'll eventually learn in a dozen other ways. "These past few days have galvanized, and polarized, the parish," he admits, "and not altogether in good ways. People we haven't heard from in months except by our Outreach have been calling to express their sympathy and concern. I've a list of messages a mile long.

"But in addition to concern, there's a lot of anger, especially when it came out that it was Charles Morley who did this, that the FBI had pulled him out of prison and then _lost _him." No one mentions the reason, that they had been seeking Christa Alverez or her body. That doesn't matter.

She's been found.

"_Te__ll_ me what _happened_."

He sighs. "Yesterday there was a protest at the Hoover building. It should have been peaceful, the Feds were going to let them express themselves and get it out of their systems and that would have been that. That is, until four of them started pelting the building and people with eggs - and rocks."

"Ohhh no," she groans.

"Shav, that's not really impor–"

"TIMMY!" The beeping monitor races. She focuses on her breathing, tries to force herself to be calm again and, as the men keep their silence, eventually the beeping slows.

x

The Counselor had told her she'd be an emotional powder-keg for weeks. She'd resolved not to be, even while admitting it'll never work.

"I'm sorry, Timmy. But it is. It really is." She turns again to Donaldson. "Tell me."

x

McGee doesn't even have to signal the man, Donaldson doesn't want to go into this now. However, they both know her too well. Now that she has something to focus on beside her own pains, she won't let it go. Beyond the distress she would evade, when it comes to her 'flock' she's relentless.

"Bill Camminara, Louis Kozak, Mary Stevens and Helen Matthews were arrested for vandalism, assault and disturbing the peace."

"Holy God." She puts her hand to her eyes, pushes her glasses up, wishing she could blind herself to this reality. "Two years I've been trying to motivate this parish, but not like _this_." She feels Timmy's hand on her shoulder. It doesn't help.

"_Fortunately_ you're not the only one with connections with the Feds," Donaldson tells her, recapturing her attention. She allows the glasses to drop back down so she can look up at him. "I spoke to the Agent-in-Charge. They spent last night in Holding; but no one was really hurt by the stones. They'll be released today if they take an offer: Clean the building, accept three months probation and the charges will go away."

The news pleases no one. "This is _wrong_. This shouldn't be happening."

"I'm going to speak to the congregation at Epiphany Mass tomorrow, appeal for calm."

"No, you're not." She pushes the covers aside. "_I_ am."

x

They can see the multitude of bruises and bandaged lacerations that cover her legs; that only hint at the damage hidden by the hospital gown. They'd seen enough yesterday, though they'd been trying _not_ to see her until Ziva and Michelle had gotten her almost reasonably covered.

"Shav," Tim restrains her, hands blocking her shoulders. She tries to sit up but hasn't the strength to fight him. "You're in the hospital, hooked up to IVs and monitors, you can't do _anything_. Father Donaldson will take a message back but you can't get out of this bed."

"Timmy, I can't–"

"You can't leave–"

"They can't keep me. I don't have anything broken–"

"Thank God," McGee stresses.

"Yes. But I'm in no danger, nor am I a danger to myself. I can leave if I want–"

"Look at you, you're covered in–"

"_Y__esterday I was covered in blood_!" Her fire silences him, ends the staccato exclamations. The monitor races but it's a long time before she can slow it, before she can find her calm voice. "Timmy, I know you care, and I love you, but I have to do this. Help me." She tries again to sit up, he won't let her. "Please."

"No."


	22. Epiphany

Chapter Twenty Two  
Epiphany

Even Easter and Christmas do not fill the huge nave of Saint Mary the Virgin Church as it's packed this Epiphany morning, the first Sunday of the New Year, the Feast of the Magi.

The past few days have spawned front page news, heated cable wires and burned holes in the television and radio airwaves. Even in a city emotionally blunted by politics and outrage over the same, the kidnap and multiple _rapes _of an Episcopal priest have dominated local and regional attention.

People who haven't attended even the major Feasts of this Church for years come to express their support, and the media presence is abundant. Large cameras and flash photography have been banned, but there's still plenty of coverage this morning. Uncounted reporters, unable to gain access to the principal person at the hospital, congregate here to await the opportunity for interviews and comments.

The pipe organ in the loft usually plays to a scattered congregation. Today it is joined by a thousand voices which fill every corner of the cathedral-like church. All eyes are upon the procession, upon Father George Donaldson and the Ministers and Acolytes as they walk the two hundred foot aisle. The faithful receive their first surprise when they turn to see that the triple seat sedilia at the right wall already occupied. The woman seated there wears a white alb secured by the cincture tied about her waist and a white stole is draped from her left shoulder to right hip.

She doesn't look at anyone. Her eyes are fixed where they belong, on the altar. Thus she doesn't see the reactions of the congregants as they see her. She doesn't have to. She's purposely worn no make-up, her bruises and swollen face stand out in sharp relief upon her face. She sits on the right seat, furthest from the congregation, and is partially hidden by Donaldson when he sits down beside her. In the left space is white albed Melanie Velez, who serves as Eucharistic Minister to O'Mallory's Deacon.

The three remain where they are during the Liturgy of the Word. The three Acolytes seated across the Sanctuary from them do not move, draw no attention to themselves. Nothing distracts from the prayers led by the Rector and readings by the Lectors.

When the time comes for the Gospel all save O'Mallory take their positions midway down the aisle, near the center of the church, to a grand flourish from the elevated organ. All eyes are on the white vested priest as he begins what the congregants are surprised to recognize is not the prescribed Gospel for the day.

There is no mention of Maji, gifts or a newborn Savior.

x

"Then came Peter to him and said, 'Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? Till seven times'?"  
"Jesus saith unto him, 'I say not unto thee until seven times: but until seventy times seven.  
"Therefore is the kingdom of heaven likened unto a certain king, which would take account of his servants. And when he had begun to reckon, one was brought unto him which owed him ten thousand talents. But forasmuch as he had not to pay, his lord commanded him to be sold, and his wife, and children, and all that he had, and payment to be made.  
"The servant therefore fell down, and worshipped him, saying, 'Lord, have patience with me, and I will pay thee all.'  
"Then the lord of that servant was moved with compassion, and loosed him, and forgave him the debt.  
"But the same servant went out, and found one of his fellow servants, which owed him an hundred pence: and he laid hands on him, and took him by the throat, saying, 'Pay me that thou owest.' And his fellow servant fell down at his feet, and besought him, saying, 'Have patience with me, and I will pay thee all.' And he would not: but went and cast him into prison, till he should pay the debt.  
"So when his fellow servants saw what was done, they were very sorry, and came and told unto their lord all that was done.  
"Then his lord, after that he had called him, said unto him, 'O thou wicked servant, I forgave thee all that debt, because thou desiredst me: Shouldest not thou also have had compassion on thy fellowservant, even as I had pity on thee?' And his lord was wroth, and delivered him to the tormentors, till he should pay all that was due unto him.  
"So likewise shall my heavenly Father do also unto you, if ye from your hearts forgive not every one his brother their trespasses."

x

The crowd that fills the huge Gothic church wonders at this reading as the men and women return to the Sanctuary accompanied by softer music. Only Tim McGee, seated near the narthex nearly a hundred feet further back, isn't surprised. He watches as the priest and his assistants return to their places, once again questioning the wisdom of this plan. He watches, the only one in the nave unsurprised, as Donaldson returns to the sedilia and takes the center seat. Velez, instead of sitting beside him, goes to the other side and assists Siobhan O'Mallory to her feet. They pause a moment to receive a blessing from the seated priest and then cross the elevated Sanctuary past the Altar to the lectern.

They move slowly, Velez seeming to provide just the traditional escort. Tim is the only one in the nave who knows they take advantage of the voluminous clothing to hide that Velez holds the priest's arm, assisting the woman to walk. Being on the left side, Velez's body hides the fact that Siobhan could not traverse that short distance without aid.

The organ falls silent, a hush fills the church.

Everyone close enough to see them clearly sees the ravages of the woman's captivity in the bruises upon her swollen and battered face and in her slow, cautious gait. Siobhan can hear the whispers growing, quickly suppressed though the individual ones are. She'd purposely chosen not to hide her bruises and nothing could be done to hide the bandages that cover the cuts on her face and hands.

She wants everyone to see the reality.

x

When she reaches the third step and can grasp the wood for support, Velez stands aside, blocked from view by the large pulpit. O'Mallory takes a moment to gather herself before she switches on the microphone and her voice fills the huge chamber. "May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be always acceptable in your sight, O Lord my Strength and my Redeemer."

"Amen," the crowd replies. Beyond that, the church grows thick with silence.

x

Siobhan is glad that, with her old glasses, she can no longer see the two hundred feet to the back of the church. As it is, she can see too many faces. If she could see everyone she probably couldn't say what she must. She looks to the distant people she can't see.

Tim can hear the thickness of her brogue and listens as, despite her efforts to hide her emotions, it steadily grows stronger.

x

"'Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? Till seven times?' Rabbinical law held that one could be forgiven three times. Peter, in asking his question, doubled that and tacked on one more, hoping to win favor with his broadminded generosity. He was quite surprised by Jesus' answer. But our Lord didn't mean 490 times. He meant it that forgiveness is unending.

"Today we'd be speaking of Maji, or gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh, but Father Donaldson granted my request to go against the Rubrics, no small concession I assure you. He agreed because I need to tell you something that has little to do with celebration or with symbolic gifts, but much to do with one of God's most precious gifts."

x

She pauses, tries to compose herself, to hold in emotions too powerful to express so she may tell them what they need to hear.

"Everyone here knows what has happened this week. Your presence here is testament to that and I – I thank you for your concern and love. But this incident has galvanized this church and people have been driven to express their anger in unfortunate ways.

"But I want to tell you that, just as Christ expressed to his disciples that the forgiveness of God is unending, you must take his message to yourselves as well."

x

She has to stop. Despite the medications that ease her pain, it hurts to talk, to stand, and her emotions are too near the surface. She needs a moment to compose herself.

"This week innocent people have been hurt, lives have been torn. A man who should not have been able to sin again was given the opportunity to do so and others have been punished. A family has been rent, a man's career is in jeopardy; hatred and violence raised their ugly heads among us …."

She has to stop, to compose herself. She doesn't want to say it, but she's come too far and they must hear it. "And for three days … I was brutalized. I was beaten, and yes … I … I was _raped_." Her voice breaks and she must stop to compose herself. It's half a minute when she can continue, "I was raped … more times than I–"

x

Emotion again steals her words. She fights back tears, sees them in the eyes of many of the people before her. She watches that revelation, and her shame, work their way through the men and women before her for as far back as she's able to see.

But she has one more shock for them. She takes a deep breath, focuses on steadying her voice. Her tremulous whisper, the best voice she can manage, echoes through the silent church.

"I forgive him."

x

Through the silence she sees glances exchanged; masks of disbelief and outrage. She's grateful she can't see all the way through the chamber. She tries to strengthen her voice, to declare rather than whisper.

"I _forgive_ him." The disbelief fades, leaves only outrage.

"I don't do it because I am especially forgiving. I'm _hurt_ … and I'm _angry_." She fights back the emotion. It takes a long moment before she can speak.

"And I will hurt - and be angry - for a very long time, long past the weeks it'll take my body to heal. But I am _not_ going to press any charge at all. It's not because one can hardly add punishment to two Life sentences plus twenty-five without parole; that's not the reason I forgive him." She must stop, try again to compose herself.

"Our Lord Jesus gave us a command and an example of ultimate forgiveness on the cross, and we must take that cross and that forgiveness into our lives. Our Lord will forgive him his sins if he will repent. I have forgiven him. And _you_ must remove anger and hatred from your hearts and forgive him too."

x

She stops and tries to soften her voice that had grown thick with emotion. "It's not easy for any of us. I didn't even reach that decision until I heard what happened on Friday to four of our sisters and brothers in Christ who took the law into their own hands on my behalf and were arrested for it.

"They are free and with us this morning, but still must make restitution for their actions. I thank them for their care and love, and _beg_ that they take no similar action.

"There can be - there need be," she amends, "no restitution from Charles Morley to me, though I hope he will make it to God. But you – and I – must _pray_ for the strength to forgive. Forgive not because of the people who have been hurt, not because of God's response to those who won't look into their hearts to forgive, but because it is the _right_ thing to do.

"May the blessing of God the Father, Son and Holy Spirit be with us this morning and for evermore."

x

She turns and carefully steps down the three steps, comes beside Velez, grateful the white vestments hide how badly she's trembling. Velez takes her trembling left hand, walks beside her, her other hand grips Siobhan's elbow to steady her better. Those closest can see the ravages of the priest's ordeal mapped upon her face, can read the hurt she's too worn to disguise any longer.

But rather than returning to their seats, she opens the Sacristy door, carefully steps down the two steps and closes the door behind her.

x

When Father Donaldson immediately begins the recitation of the Creed, Tim McGee leaves his pew near the narthex, bows slightly toward the Sacrament within the tabernacle and walks rapidly to the rear, exits right and hurries through the foyer. His pace increases as he cuts through Hamilton Hall, hurries through the rear door and rushes down the short corridor to the Sacristy.

There he finds Siobhan seated slumped on a short stepladder normally used for reaching items in the upper cupboards. She looks up and he can see the ravages she had hidden at the Sanctuary in her eyes.

"Oh Timmy, I feel awful." Her brogue is thick now that she needn't moderate it for the congregation's understanding.

x

He unties the cincture at her waist, she removes the white stole from her left shoulder, folds, kisses and hands it up to him, but with her braced hand she cannot reach the snaps that secure the alb at her neck. He undoes the garment, draws it down her arms, allows it to drape unattended over the stepstool; she cannot rise to free it.

She wears her blue clerical shirt and black skirt, having been unable to manage the many buttons of her black cassock. She'd refused to allow anyone to dress her. The shirt and skirt hide less than half her bruises and lacerations. He can see the bulges of dozens of bandages dotting or wrapped about her torso and legs, and knows there are many more hidden by the clothes.

"_Now_ will you go back to the hospital?"

She shakes her hanging head. He knows the medication, less powerful than what she'd had in the hospital, doesn't numb all the pain but it does weary her. She fights to look up at him.

"Timmy, I'm about to say something to you that you have waited _years _to hear."

"What's that?"

She reaches up, her good hand on his cheek, her voice a strained whisper. "Please take me to bed."

x

He cautiously eases her to her feet, not sure where he can safely touch her. They leave the alb draped over the stepstool. She gasps, her face contorted in pain. He eases his hold on her even more. "Is there anywhere I can touch you?"

She shakes her head. "No," she whispers sharply, doesn't let go of him. After a few moments she gains enough control of the pain for them to start for the door.

Neither reaches for the silver cane propped against the cabinet; she prefers his aid. He recalls so many months ago when their positions had been reversed, when he had been so hurt he depended on others. He draws her arm about his neck, supporting her, but they take only two steps before she stops.

"Timmy?" Her tone is apprehensive, fearful. She comes around so they face one another. "After all this, do you still want to ...?"

"To what? Marry you?"

She nods sharply. He knows what the 'all this' is. She'd been celibate for years, had never been with more than one other person through all her life and that day had been a mistake. Now a succession of rapes…. She knows she won't be the first to be turned aside.

"You don't _ever_ have to ask that."

She tries to speak, tears too close to breaking cut off her voice. In time she can try again, but her words can only come in a whisper.

"You're like Jesus to me."

He's very flattered, but "I wouldn't go that far."

"I did. You've always been here for me," she fights the tears back again, "and I never have to …. Timmy, you are my 'forever friend'."

He knows there are few who might recognize the significance of those words. He does.

"Shav, I love you. I've loved you enough to wait twenty years for you, for you to say 'yes'. I'd get down on my knees and propose again if I weren't afraid I'd drop you and–"

She clings to him, buries her face in his chest and cries. He remembers she'd told him with grim pride that she'd not broken during all that Morley had done.

Now he holds her as she sobs, no longer holding it in, finally releasing her hurt.

ooo

Next Episode: Millennium.  
The Navy's decades of experimentation and development have produced a deadly threat - and it's out of control.


End file.
